


If you close your eyes

by nothingislittle



Series: Bad Blood [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark John, Dark Sherlock, Drug Use, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, First Time, His Last Vow Spoilers, Infidelity, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Marking, Obsessed Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Drug Use, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Self-Harm, Sherlock-centric, Smut, Stag Night, The Sign of Three, The Sign of Three Spoilers, series 3 spoilers, sherlock POV, stag do, tso3, tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>When I write in Sherlock POV there are always run-ons. Lots and lots of run-ons. </p><p>Rated explicit for later chapters.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. I was left to my own devices

**Author's Note:**

> When I write in Sherlock POV there are always run-ons. Lots and lots of run-ons. 
> 
> Rated explicit for later chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John smells like everything Sherlock has ever wanted and scotch and clean laundry and the only thing he can think is John John John, chanting within him, plastered on the inside of his skull like wall paper."

Sherlock Holmes thinks about John Watson.

\--

He stands at the top of the stairs at 221B and thinks about John.

\--

He twirls the cold, metal knobs on the microscope in the lab and he thinks about John.

\--

He leaps from the roof of an historic London hospital and thinks about John.

\--

He runs through a Siberian forest and pants and his lungs burn and his heart hurts, it _hurts,_ and he thinks about John.

\--

He stands in the middle of the kitchen eating extra portions of chips, still fully dressed and his stupid coat is so hot and his scarf is choking him and he's alone and his heart is breaking. Or it's already broken. He can't tell. He screams and throws his wrapper and what's left of the chips with all of his strength at that hatefully empty, red chair. He stomps to his room and curls up in the middle of his carefully made bed and thinks.

About John. 

He hasn't been bored since he's been back, hasn't been without something that consumes his mind at all times in weeks. He used to think it was _so good_ not to be bored, as long as he was occupied by anything, anything at all.

He would kill something to be bored again — just for a moment. 

\--

Wedding bells are ringing, going to the chapel and get him to the church on time. John is getting married in two weeks and Sherlock's head is full of useless wedding cliches and sayings and serviettes and place settings because he wants John to be happy. John _**will**_ be happy. Sherlock will _**make**_ that happen whether or not it splits the detective from head to toe and splays his insides for the entire population of London to see. 

 --

"It can just be the two of us, if you want." John says when Sherlock silently frets over the guest list for the stag do. Sherlock looks at John and deduces him right down to his eyelashes and he can see he means it and John smiles warmly at him. Sherlock sighs and throws the guest list away and smiles back. 

\--

Sherlock fills the beakers and keeps track on his phone and even though they're on schedule down to the drop, for some reason things begin to get fuzzy and soft and confusing. Sherlock knows ash and ducks punches and then John's arms are around his chest from behind, pulling him away and Sherlock keeps blustering and fussing about ash like a child but literally the only thing he's thinking of is the fireworks display under his skin where John's hands made contat and how he can make it happen again. In the cab he plots, fuzzily.

Fuck fidelity. Fuck propriety. Fuck everything but this. 

When they stumble into 221B, they both see the staircase like an Escher painting. John sits down on the first step and leans back, arms crossed, and Sherlock sees his opening. He lays back next to John, but facing opposite, because he can't — won't — let on. His back is flush with John's side, shoulder to scapula, elbow to waist, his ass pressed into John's hip and it's a Guy Fawkes celebration inside Sherlock's body.

_Just keep talking._

He mumbles about international reputations and can't for anything remember what he does or who he is outside of this moment and John's body against his.

Mrs. Hudson bustles in and out again and Sherlock fights the need to scream, _scream_ at her to go away and then John springs up and Sherlock follows — can't let on — every version of himself in every room of his mind palace absolutely shrieking at him to keep John pressed close. He falls down a step with a thump and realizes with sharp and stabbing clarity that he's painfully hard. He sends John up the stairs ahead of him and wills it away, wills it all to go away, but he's aching at the sight of John and the tightness of trousers.

More alcohol, yes, that's what Sherlock needs. Dull everything, dampen it down, make these sharply uncomfortable edges fuzzy and easy. 

They plaster papers to their foreheads and when John's pouring the drinks, Sherlock pushes their chairs closer together. They talk and laugh and lean back and forth into each other like a dance. Why does John keep looking at him like that with crinkly eyes and that soft smile? Warm — everything is warm when John smiles like that — or is it the alcohol? Sherlock can't tell and he doesn't care and he smiles back. 

"Am I the current King of England?" Sherlock leans forward and John laughs — god, John's laugh — Sherlock doesn't understand the leaps and bounds and bullets he would take just to hear that laugh. 

"You know we don't have a king?"

Sherlock knows. 

"Don't we?"

John laughs again and the world has meaning. 

"Your go." Sherlock sits back with his scotch in hand and is suddenly nauseated by how happy he feels because it's false, it's all fake and finite because this night will end and it will end soon. He purses his lips.

John leans forward to take his guess and begins to slip and his hand comes up and curls around Sherlock's knee, steadying himself and throwing Sherlock perpetually out of balance. The room spins when he looks down at John's warm hand grasping his knee and all the days of a million years are contained there in these few moments when John touches him. 

_Can't let on. Won't let on._

John pulls back. John shrugs. 

"I don't mind."

Sherlock wants to laugh and cry and hit him because the most incredible thing in history has just happened and John _doesn't mind_. Sherlock only shakes his head and shrugs back, genially, managing to sputter a clumsy "Any time" — because, literally, he would take _any_ time, _anything_ — but John is talking again. John is asking if he's pretty and Sherlock laughs and laughs and babbles about social constructs because, god, when has anything ever been more beautiful? He can't get past the buzzing in his knee. They both fall back, giggling. 

"Want another drink?"

"Mmm? Mm. Mmhm, yes." John mumbles and tries to stand and stumbles backward into his chair and they're laughing again. 

"Here, help me." John holds out his hand and Sherlock feels like it's a gift and when he takes it, he decides he doesn't want to let go. When John stands, Sherlock sweeps his foot under John's legs and tugs hard on his arm so he falls onto Sherlock, landing in the crook between Sherlock's right side and the corner of the chair, John's short legs draped over Sherlock's lap. And John is _giggling_. 

"Sherlock, what're you - "

"Jus - jus sit in my chair with me."

"Why?" John laughs, slightly amused, slightly indignant, but not moving — he's absolutely not moving. 

"Erhm — so I can see the name on your paper better. All this leaning back n' forth — s'exhausting and I can't 'member the — " Sherlock gestures with his lanky fingers toward John's forehead, "Ya know, the thing." 

"Mmm kay ... what about the drinks?"

Sherlock snorts. "I really think we've both had enough."

"Ha. Yeah. S'pose." John lays his head back on the chair's arm rest, eyes closed. "Your go," he says and Sherlock's body is alight. 

"So I'm a man, not as tall as people think I am ..." He tries so hard to concentrate on this infuriating game but John — he's invaded by John — his legs on his lap, their shoulders and hips pressing in to each other and his smell. John smells like everything Sherlock has ever wanted and scotch and clean laundry and the only thing he can think is _John_ , chanting within of him, plastered on the inside of his skull like wallpaper. John John John John ...

"I'm _you_ , aren't I?" John's laughing again and Sherlock rests his hand on John's left thigh, lightly, as if giving it no thought and John doesn't acknowledge it at all. Sherlock's heart races. "I'll take that as a no. Your go."

"Pffff. Am I ... American?"

"Mmhm." 

"Am I an actress?" 

"Errhm," Sherlock leans into John to look at his rizla, their noses six inches apart and he wants to touch them together. To run the tip of his up the side of John's and breathe the same air and press his lips to John's brow and count all the tiny little hairs there. 

John opens his eyes and Sherlock realizes he's been staring at John far too long and his heart pounds, now from panic. _Please, John, don't get up. Please don't go._

But John. John just smiles, soft and crinkled. 

"So am I?"

"Hm? What?" 

"An actress?" 

"Oh, ah ... um," He squints at the paper again and he's lost. Just lost. He gives up. 

"I don't know who you are. I don't know who you're supposed to be."

John is laughing, his body shaking against Sherlock. "You picked the name!"

"Yeah, but I chose it at random from the papers."

John's head falls back and his eyes close again. "You're not really getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock?"

He doesn't move, just stays, practically in Sherlock's lap, and the detective is so happy. So deliriously happy. It surges through his veins and transmutes into boldness. Sherlock lifts his hand and slowly, slowly traces one long, pale finger from John's knee up the top of his thigh to his pocket. John makes a tiny contented noise and Sherlock can't breathe. His mouth is dry and he's breathing too fast so he holds it in. He reverses the motion down John's leg, dragging the nails of his first fingers back down the taut fabric and John sighs.

Sherlock can't believe what's happening and he fights to stay in the moment — so hard not to deduce and ramble or retreat when he's scared like this. No, not like this. He's never been scared like _this_. But John's here and he's beautiful and he's under Sherlock's hands finally, finally. _Finally_. 

John's jumper has ridden up so that a small patch of skin is exposed and Sherlock absolutely can't stop his fingers from reaching there next. He slides his index finger from one hip bone to the other and when John's mouth falls open and drags in a ragged breath, Sherlock pushes his whole hand up under the knitted fabric and the vest underneath, splaying his fingers flat. His hand covers almost all of John's soft stomach. Sherlock's chest is throbbing now from how hard his heart is beating and his lungs burn from trying to keep his breathing regular and his cock is straining so tightly against his trousers it hurts.

John uncrosses his arms and Sherlock momentarily thinks he's going to get up and walk out and get married and it will all be over, but no. He drops his right arm over the side of the chair and wraps his left around Sherlock, putting his hand, warm and rough, on Sherlock's neck, effectively laying himself out on Sherlock — for Sherlock. He moves his hand across John's abdomen, feeling his breath beneath his fingers, memorizing the way his hair moves there. Data, Sherlock wants to catalogue every last iota of data about John Watson — first with has hands and then with his mouth. He's lost himself tracing patterns across John's skin under his shirt when he hears John clear his throat. 

"Sherlock," Sherlock stills. "C'mere." 

"Wh — what?" He looks up at John, confused, frozen. 

"I want to take that paper off your forehead."

Sherlock relaxes and starts to lift his hand. "Oh, I can — "

"No." John bites out, suddenly forceful, locking eyes with Sherlock. "Don't move your hand."

Sherlock's eyes widen and he thinks he might actually catch fire. 

"Lean over here and I'll get the rizla." Sherlock tilts his head down toward John and calloused fingers peel the paper away. Over the buzzing in his ears, Sherlock manages to ask, "So, watsit say?"

John smiles as he turns the paper around to show the name written there: Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock starts laughing, deep and happy and free. He laughs until there are tears and he drops his head forward onto John's shoulder, which is also shaking from laughter. Sherlock is still laughing when he feels John's nose nuzzle in the hair by his ear and a deep breath expand under his fingers, which are still pressed up against the bare skin of John's stomach. He stops laughing and tries to breathe, because John is smelling him, _inhaling_ him. He slides his hand further up, to cautiously pad a thumb across John's nipple. The moan that comes from John is more than he can take and the tears that are still in Sherlock's eyes from laughing slip down his cheeks.

What is he doing? What is he even thinking about? Mary, oh god, _Mary_. John was supposed to be happy. John is _going_ to be happy. He can't — he can't do this. He's ruining things again, he has to stop.

 _Stop being so bloody_ Sherlock.

Panicked and hating himself, Sherlock begins to pull his arm back and immediately, John's right hand curls around his wrist, vice-like and his voices comes, hot and rough and wet against Sherlock's ear.

"Stop. Thinking." It's a growl. It's a command. Sherlock shivers. "For once, just _stop bloody thinking_." Sherlock rolls his head back and forth on John's shoulder, torn, afraid. "Sherlock," John's whispering in his ear. "Tell me what you want." 

Sherlock groans, breathing hard through gritted teeth, hiding his face and trying to hold back the flood of words swelling in his mouth.

_How can I say it? How? How would I even get those words over these ridiculous walls in my head?_

He shakes his head harder, refusing, unable and John's hold on his wrists tightens until the bones scrape together and Sherlock whines in both pain and pleasure. 

"Sherlock." His name inside John's mouth makes him whimper. "Tell me."

"I want." Sherlock takes deep breaths. "I want _everything_. I want to take you apart and write my name all over the inside of you so that when you're put back together you'll never forget that you're mine and that I had you and that _you're mine_."

John is silent and Sherlock keeps his head down, grimacing at his honesty and at the quiet, terrified, horrified at himself. His hand is still resting on John's chest and he can feel the rapid tattoo of his heart and he takes the last few moments he'll be allowed to touch his John to memorize the texture of his skin, the pattern of his chest hair, the imprint of his stupid wooly jumper pressed into Sherlock's forehead. He feels himself begin to shake and John's breath is in his ear again. 

"Shhh." He soothes and his hands come up around Sherlock's cheeks and his tongue darts out to trace the shell of his ear. Sherlock pulls back to look John in the eyes, to deduce his way through, and what he sees on John's face stops the universe expanding. It shrinks right down to this one, vivid point: John Watson _wants_ him. 

"But what about Mar —"

Fingers on Sherlock's lips. He closes his eyes. 

"Don't."

Sherlock slides his tongue out for a taste and John gasps. Their eyes meet over John's extended arm, pupils blown, hearts pounding, courage nearly failing.

"Sherlock." John chokes out. "Take me apart."


	2. And the walls kept tumbling down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock understands the depth of pain and yearning he hears and his head spins and he can't feel the floor beneath him because he never dared to imagine he would see his own yearning mirrored in John."

In his mind, the World's Only Consulting Detective is standing atop a very high precipice. Behind him is everything his life has been and before him is everything he wants.

He dives forward into what could be.

When Sherlock presses his lips to John's for the first time, his mind palace is whites out blank except for the points on his body that are in contact with John. When John's tongue darts out to wet his lips, cracked and waiting, the entire world comes slamming back into Sherlock's mind all at once, John shining beneath him, bright and hot, and the clarity of the situation is sharp enough to cut him open and he feels like he's operating at double speed.

He takes John's head in his hands, slipping his long fingers into his short hair and diving into John's mouth, tasting coffee and whiskey and mint. Sherlock shifts so John slips beneath him and shoves his thigh in between John's legs, gasping when he feels just how large and hard and hot he is. Desperate for data about John, he drags his tongue from John's mouth and trails it greedily from his lips to his chin, up his jaw, in his ear, sucking his earlobe into his mouth. He shoves John's jumper up, and simultaneously pinches his nipples and bites down on his ear. John yelps, arching his back.

"Jesus!" John squirms beneath him, gasping, and rutting involuntarily up against Sherlock's thigh, circling his arms around Sherlock and pulling him closer.

John is so warm, Sherlock feels like he's blazing under his fingers and he imagines hazy visions of Icarus and his melting wings. Sherlock buries his head in the space between John's ear and shoulder and frantically tongues the skin there, tasting sun, soap, John — it's all John, everything Sherlock is, and he wants crawl inside the man and exist only there for the rest of time.

John moans Sherlock's name when Sherlock's mouth latches on to his collar bone. "John. John, _god_ ," Sherlock murmurs into John's skin, clawing at him, frantic, unable to get close enough. He hitches his leg up and over to straddle John's hips. When their cocks finally slot into place, sliding up next to each other, they both gasp. Sherlock rolls his hips forward and bites John again, through his jumper, right over his gunshot scar.

"Christ, FUCK," John spits, dryly, breathing hard.

Unable to stop, careening into the sun and burning from the inside out, Sherlock ruts frantically against John, desperate for friction, for release, for anything, for everything he can have of John, licking and biting at his lips, devouring him as he feels he's being devoured.

"Sherlock!" John's muffled cry against his mouth spurs him on, growling. "Sher — slow down, for fucks —"

He hears nothing but the vibration of John's voice against his chest and he pushes higher and harder and he can't stop, could never stop, because for all the world it's better than nicotine, better than heroine, because it's  _his_  John, who's sliding his strong hands into Sherlock's tangled curls. Abruptly those hands make fists and yank down, hard enough to send pain shooting through Sherlock's scalp. He keens, high and needy and stills. 

Bright blue eyes stare forward, unsure and unmoving, observing the beautiful blush in John's cheeks and the sheen on his forehead, the rise and fall of his exposed chest.

"Sherlock." He whines at the sound of his name. "Slow down. Or this is going to be over. Right. Now." 

The power burns through Sherlock like a fuse, from his head to his heels, when he realizes how close to the edge he's driven John despite the fact that they're both still fully clothed. _How is this happening, how is this possible?_ He doesn't know and he doesn't care and consequences are something that happen to someone else somewhere very, very far away. This, this night, this power he just discovered he has over John is what is right now. He rolls his hips again, smirking, pleasure spiking when John growls and pulls down at his hair again _._

 _"J -_  John. I can't — "

"Stop." _  
_

He can't, no more than he can still the wild beating of his heart, and once more he tries to thrust his hips forward, the petulant child in his mind insisting he hold on to this new found power, but he doesn't even have a chance to move before he's crashing backwards on to the floor, held down on his knees by John's hands in his dark curls. Feeling defiant, Sherlock tries to shake his head but John's hands are wound too tightly for him to move.

"You're going to calm down and you're going to do it now. This is not syringe full of cocaine or a mouthful of cigarettes. Having me all at once isn't going to make it better."

Sherlock kneels before his own personal sun. The fists in his hair and his knees on the floor are making him recognize that he's only ever been given the illusion of control, now, here in this room, and on every other day of his life since this man limped into it. _Where did you come from?_

"Now take a deep breath and use that massive brain of yours to decide what you want to catalog next." Sherlock looks at John, who's smirking, and Sherlock is in awe that anyone could know him, read him so well. Everything in him tightens and pulls.

"Make a decision now or I will flip you over and have you right here on this floor."

A shudder snaps Sherlock back to movement. He leans forward and buries his face in John's crotch, mouthing up his thick length through his trousers. John moans and finally looses his hands. Shaking violinist's fingers scrabble with John's belt and fly and pants and his cock barely touches air before Sherlock's mouth surges around its head and pushes down until John bottoms out in his throat. John stomps his feet and pounds his fist into the arm rests.

"Jesus, Sherlock, don't you have a gag reflex?"

He looks up from under his eyelashes, from between John's legs, coyly as he can, and shakes his head once, twice — John groans, pained, and Sherlock begins to move, all the way up John's cock and back down again, slowly, agonizingly, hell bent on savoring every moment, every inch of this. He continues, slowly, until John makes a noise that could only be described as a sob, making Sherlock's heart hurt and he begins to bob faster, burying his nose brushing each time in the blonde, curly hair, and soon the hands are back in his hair and John's hips are thrusting and Sherlock closes his eyes, letting him take over, relishing the burn in his lungs from the lack of sufficient air, and the tears gathering in his eyes. John looks down, eyes blazing and moans deeply, still thrusting frenetically. 

"Please," he whines. "Oh _god,_ please!" Sherlock isn't sure what he's asking for but then he thrusts into Sherlock's throat and stills, dropping his head back, closing his eyes. "Please let me fuck you."

It's a whisper, a prayer, a hope so broken and impossible John has to ask it with his eyes screwed shut. 

Sherlock eases off, slowly, spit dipping down his chin, and waits for John to look down at him. He looks suddenly so small and so sad, and Sherlock realizes in this moment that he's shattered, he's a damaged, hollow shell and Sherlock is the one who carved him out. He wouldn't have denied him before, but now he knows he will never deny him anything. Ever again. 

John's eyes open, wide and searching.

"Yes." Sherlock breathes. 

John's looks at Sherlock with something like disbelief at first, but when he takes in the sight of Sherlock on his knees, rubbing his leaking, spit-slicked cock on his cheek, reverently, John's face twists into a grimace.

"Oh my _god_."

Sherlock understands the depth of pain and yearning he hears there and his head spins and he can't feel the floor beneath him because he never dared to imagine he would see his yearning mirrored in John. Now he's being hauled up between John's legs by his lapels and into John's lovely mouth for for desperate kisses, sloppy and wet. John's tongue is everywhere — on his lips, on his teeth, biting, tasting, licking, while his hands slip of Sherlock's suit coat and start to slowly undo his buttons. Sherlock moans and kisses back with abandon, letting all of his masks and disguises fall away, to let John see the extent of his devotion. John tilts Sherlock's head back by his chin and traces kisses down his jaw, his neck, the bare white expanse of his chest, humming contentedly while Sherlock pants and keens helplessly. 

"Sherlock?" John asks against his skin.

"Ahh, ah, what?"

"Do you have ... anything?"

Sherlock struggles for rational thought and focus and then realizes what John is asking. 

"Oh, erm, yes, there's some lubricant in the bathroom."

John is sucking what will surely become a wonderfully purple love bite in the center of his chest. 

"And condoms?" He asks between bites. 

"Not necessary."

John laughs lightly. "We should at least attempt _some_ responsibility here."

"I agree, John, but, ahhh, well, I had our blood tested, _oh_ , last week and we're both clear."

John stops sucking. 

"Excuse me?" His voice is soft, dangerous, and Sherlock is at a loss as to why. He looks down at John's face and knits his brows together. 

"I ... I regularly have our blood tested, John, for tetanus and, you know, other things. For our safety. What with all the filthy skips we crawl through, etc. I — I thought you would be pleased."

John takes Sherlock's wrists in his hands and jerks him close so their faces are nearly touching. "And how _exactly_ do you get these blood samples from me?"

Sherlock squirms, afraid to answer, afraid to be silent. "Erm, in your sleep, or, or — or when I drug you." A flurry of movement and Sherlock somehow ends up under John on Sherlock's chair. John is tearing open his fly and yanking down his trousers, his pants. Roughly he grabs Sherlock's cock and begins to pump him furiously, wrenching Sherlock's head to the side by his fringe, to whisper darkly in his ear. 

"Listen to me, you little shit."

Sherlock is desperately trying not to come while John angrily strokes him, torturing him, too fast, too hard, but so good that he thinks he may be seeing stars. 

"I'm sick of you acting like a fucking child. You are going to stop pulling shit like this without telling me. You want my blood, ask me for it and I'll give it to you. Understood?"

"Yes, John, yes, god, I'm sorry."

"I'm going to fuck you tonight until you mean that and I'm going to wear a bloody condom as well, because one, you fucking deserve it and two, I don't care you clean you've determined we are, I'm the one of the two of us who's qualified to make that call."

"Okay okay, yes, okay, John, yes." Sherlock doesn't know where he is anymore but John isn't happy with him and he's taking it out on Sherlock by driving him to the edge as quickly as possible. Right now, Sherlock is certain, he would acquiesce to anything. John is still pumping Sherlock's cock, angrily, and Sherlock's going to burst, he's going to crack in half beneath if John doesn't stop.

"John, _please_!" He cries and John let's go, stumbling back. He looks possessed, crazed, his hair is wild, his fly open, his angy red erection bobbing in front of him. He drags his hands through his hair, mussing it more. 

"Christ, this is fucking insanse."

Sherlock pants, sprawled out on his own leather chair, shirt open, trousers and pants at his ankles, trying to regain control of himself, afraid John is going to call it all off. Childishly, he thinks to himself that if John left now, Sherlock might die right there. 

"Where?" John demands. "Where do you want me to fuck you? You decide."

Sherlock bites his lip as he casts his glance around the flat, eyes resting on John's chair — that hateful, empty chair. 

"Your chair. In your chair." John looks from the chair back to Sherlock and smirks, nods. 

"Go get the lube."

Sherlock begins to get up.

"And leave your clothes where they are." John demands roughly. "I'm going to fuck you while you're still half dressed." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at onthelosingside.tumblr.com for updates, Benedict Cumberbatch handporn, etc.


	3. Great clouds roll over the hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John kisses Sherlock like he's saying goodbye, like he's going away, where Sherlock can't follow, like it will never be like this again and it leaves a deep, searing imprint on Sherlock's heart like a tattoo — like a brand."

_Who is this man?_

Sherlock, dazed, shuffles to the bathroom with his trousers around his feet. Could it have always been like this? If Sherlock had found a way to stay? If he had the courage to say something? If he hadn't been so damn _Sherlock_? Could he have had John all long? He will never know and it makes me want to kill — to die. 

He slams the medicine cabinet door, bottle in hand, and sees his reflection there. _Wrecked._ This is what that looks like. Tears on his cheeks, his hair matted and damp with sweat, his eyes bloodshot, lips red, swollen, a deep people bruise blooming in the center of his chest like an orchid unfurling toward the sun. Sherlock touches it reverently but catches sight of himself in the mirror. His face looks so brilliantly hopeful that he's disgusted — unbidden, Mary comes to mind and Sherlock unexpectedly finds himself retching in the toilet, quietly as he can. He wipes his mouth and reaches up to reopen the medicine cabinet before he stands so she won't have to endure the sight of his pathetic face again. 

Stumbling back into the living room, he finds John sat in his chair, trousers and pants gone, a condom already rolled over his cock, waiting. Sherlock grabs John's forgotten glass and shoots the rest of the scotch, trying to wash the taste of vomit and fear from his mouth. When the bottom of the glass thumps against the side table, John turns and looks at Sherlock — his face softens, from anger to appreciation. 

"You are so beautiful."

Sherlock blinks stupidly, the sweetness in John's voice sending softly agonizing pangs through his abdomen. He knows he's blinking stupidly and he hates it but he can't stop because never once did he expect to hear something so sweet come from John. He's hear him flattering, amazed, but never so reverent, so soft. His heart clenches and flips. 

"Come here." John holds out his arms and Sherlock stumbles over to sit on his lap. John kisses him softly while slipping Sherlock's shoes and clothes over his feet and tossing them aside while sighing heavily and looking past him. Sherlock has absolutely no idea what to say when John look so sad — he never does. "I'm sorry." John huffs. 

"You're angry." Sherlock ventures, still perplexed, but willing to accept it. Laughter, John laughs again but this time its bitter and sad and Sherlock hates it. 

"Yeah, a bit."

"I don't understand why." 

John looks up at him and pulls a tight smile, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's bare thighs, soothing. "I know."

"Is it —"

"Don't. I don't want to talk."

And he's kissing him again but it's different from the way their lips have met the rest of the night. The desperation is held back and it's soft and slow and it makes Sherlock's insides twist. John kisses his cheeks and eyes, lips against fluttering eyelids. He kisses Sherlock like he's saying goodbye, like he's going away, where Sherlock can't follow, like it will never be like this again and it leaves a deep, searing imprint on Sherlock's heart like a tattoo — like a brand. 

They're still kissing, slow and deep when John sips the bottle from Sherlock's hands and pours the liquid on his hands and fingers and then on Sherlock, starting to stroke him gently, pausing occasionally to run his thumb through moisture leaking from the tip. The tenderness in John makes Sherlock moan even more than his warm hands. He continues like this until Sherlock can't help but to let his body go slack and slowly recline sideways so that now he's spread, long, lanky limbs hanging loosely over the sides of the chair. By all accounts someone of his size should be too much for John to handle but he supports him firmly, ably, cradling Sherlock's head by the nape of his neck.

When John's hand slips between Sherlock's legs, massaging the sensitive skin above his entrance, Sherlock involuntarily tenses. 

"It's alright." John's thumb brushes gently at the base of Sherlock's scalp. Slowly, shoulders sag and muscles relax and John slowly slips his first finger inside Sherlock. 

" _John."_ Sherlock drawls, drowsy with the pleasure of having a part of John inside him. "Yes, yes — please." John hums in agreement.

Sherlock grabs at John's jumper with his left hand, attempting to stay grounded when he feels as if he's floating away. John's finger slides in and out of him, slowly, but relentlessly and soon it's two fingers and then three. Sherlock writhes, trying not to imagine how John became skilled at this particular task. 

"That's it, Sherlock, that's it. Just like that." John's voice elicits strangled noises from Sherlock, who pushing himself down against John's fingers, grinding into the pleasure, when John twists so that he brushes Sherlock's prostate on a down stroke and Sherlock begins to quake.

"John, now, please, now, I can't — I can't take it." Sherlock is begging, he's begging John for mercy and he finds himself grotesque but he cannot stop himself. John pulls him up, kisses him softly once, on his lips and turns Sherlock so that he's facing away from John, straddling his strong legs. John drags his cock up Sherlock's slit and back down again, smearing moisture, teasing, and Sherlock cries out. John positions his prick at Sherlock's entrance, putting one hand on Sherlock's bony hip and the other where Sherlock's shoulder meets his neck and exhales, long and slow. 

"Go ahead, Sherlock."

" _Oh_."

Sherlock puts each of his hands on either arm of John's red chair and recognizes with an abrupt clarity that he will never again look at this chair without feeling the rough texture of the fabric on his fingers, the structure of the wood beneath the upholstery, without remembering the moment he let John claim him fully, finally — that this chair will never again be simply a chair. Although, truly, that's been the case since the man sitting in it now first took his place five years ago. 

Sherlock eases back, feeling the head of John's cock press against him and it feels like letting John in here, now, will ruin him for the rest of his life and he cannot find it in himself to care. Warm hands on his waist and his neck pull down on him insistently and when John slips inside of him, the flat is exceptionally quiet, neither man is breathing as John slides home, his pelvis meeting Sherlock's in silence, and they breathe deeply in unison, pausing, overwhelmed by each other. Then, Sherlock purrs in his impossibly deep baritone, "I want you to ruin me, John."

" _Jesus christ_."

The frenzied desperation from earlier in the night returns as John starts pounding into Sherlock, with deep, sharp thrusts and Sherlock can feel himself bruising where John's hands dig into his skin. He's hitting the spot inside of Sherlock where he never even knew his body needed John and all Sherlock can think is _why, why did we wait so long_? 

John's hand at his neck moves down between his shoulder blades, pressing to bend Sherlock over and John sinks still deeper inside of him, and John pushes up his shirt and coat and starts kissing up and down Sherlock's spine, tonguing the sweat there, breathing his name between thrusts and Sherlock clings, white-knuckled, to the chair's arms, helpless but to let John take him. John speeds up and pulls Sherlock back against him, sucking and biting at his pale throat. Sherlock grinds down on him, shouting nonsense, trying to say more, more, it will never be enough. John wraps one arm around Sherlock's chest and holds him tightly while out of the corner of Sherlock's blurred vision he sees John spit on his left hand and bring it down to curl around Sherlock's straining cock, coating it with John's saliva. He somehow manages to stroke him almost lazily while continuing the punishing rhythm of his hips. 

"Listen to me, Sherlock." John speaks softly against his ear, the head of his prick sliding against Sherlock's prostate on every thrust. "You are _mine_." The words rumble low in Sherlock's right ear and he groans, needy for them. "Do you hear me? No one else will ever get to you like this, Sherlock. _No one_. You understand me?" 

Sherlock thrashes against John, jerking his head violently in agreement, breaking apart inside, and he knows he's losing everything he once was. 

"Only me." John snarls, cruel and possessive. "Say it. I want to hear you say it."

"Yes, John, only you, _only you_."

"Mine. Mine. _Mine_." John drives home, chanting on each upstroke.

"John, I'm -"

"I know." John twists his hand over the head of Sherlock's cock and he's there, spilling all over John's fingers and Sherlock is shouting, screaming something, he thinks it must be John's name, but John's other hand clamps down over his mouth to muffle him. Everything is hazy as white heat surges throughout his body and he spends himself in John's fist, biting his hand and tasting blood. 

John groans when Sherlock's body clenches around him, pushing harder and faster and coming with a muffled sob, dragging his teeth along Sherlock's neck.

\--

Sherlock is wasted, body and heart, and when John slips from him, he's completely hollow. He can't make himself move. John lifts him to his feet, supporting him as he directs them to the bathroom where he lets the tap run until it warms. Sherlock stares at the running water, avoiding John's face. He's brimming with liquid dread of what he might see in his eyes — or what he might not see. John closes the medicine cabinet door with a snap and the sound makes Sherlock look up at the mirror. He's staring at himself, his own hateful, frightened face gaping and he clenches his eyes closed.

"Hey, hey, it's alright." John's hand is on his cheek, but he can't — won't — let on. He hears John wet a flannel and then he lifts Sherlock's shirt tails and he's cleaning Sherlock, gently, softly, and it's so sweet, it's so loving Sherlock's knees give out for just a moment and he's sick of himself and he wants to crawl out of his sentimental skin and leave this inevitable heartache behind. He catches himself on the wall. John dries them both and takes Sherlock's hand, pulling them into Sherlock's room, where he removes the rest of both of their clothes.

John leaves the lights out, pulling the covers down and guides Sherlock by his wrist to lie down, pulling just the sheet up over his chest and then moving around the bed. Once he's settled himself under the covers, John reaches out for Sherlock's hand, kisses the inside of his wrist and laces their fingers together.

Sherlock turns his head into the pillow, letting the case absorb the tears gathering in his eyes. 

John is in his bed. John is holding his hand. John is going to sleep with him. And then the sun will rise and he'll get dressed and walk out the door and go to the final tasting for his wedding cake that's scheduled for 10:30 tomorrow morning. His _wedding_ cake. John is getting married in eight days and this night was a farce, a sham, will be claimed as an empty, drunken mistake if ever mentioned in the light of day, and yet it has fundamentally altered the molecular structure of Sherlock's brain and body. The entirety of his life will be sorted into befores and afters and John's hands on him will be the center point. 

Sherlock regulates his breathing so that he doesn't hyperventilate from the self-loathing rising in his chest and to make John think he's fallen asleep. Twenty minutes later, as John's breathing slows down and just before John's drifted off, Sherlock hears him murmur, serenely:

"I love you."

And all at once, everything that's happened is right and real.

Sherlock smiles at the crack in his ceiling for two hours and 27 minutes. 

\--

Sherlock Holmes rarely dreams but when he does they are full of terror and pain and loss. 

Not tonight. 

Tonight Sherlock dreams about John.

Sherlock dreams about making tea in the kitchen at 221b and carrying to John, who is stretched out on _their_ bed, reading medical journals. 

Sherlock dreams about John cooking him eggs at three in the morning at the end of a case and handing him the dish with a kiss on his cheek and an insistent directive that he clear the plate. 

Sherlock dreams about trips to the super market, about holding hands while watching telly, about sitting in their chairs and reading aloud to each other, about hanging laundry and doing the dishes, about Sunday afternoons in Regent's Park and soft kisses and forehead touches and gray hair and growing old and a million soft, crinkly smiles from John Watson. 

He dreams nothing frightening, nothing dangerous. He dreams everything he never thought he would want.

\--

Bright, yellow light is creeping under Sherlock's eyelids and he tries to bat it away, like an irritated feline. As he floats toward wakefulness and acclimates to the pounding in his head, moments of the previous night seep into his consciousness. Panic rises in him until his mind palace brings John Watson's softly uttered, "I love you" back, levitating in front of his eyes, in italics, in delicious emphasis. He indulges himself briefly, imagining what will ensue once the day begins. First, most practically, they'll have to call the bakery and cancel the tasting. Then John will want to go see Mary, alone, he's certain, and it will be messy, he's also certain, but after all that is handled, he and John will sit down together to talk. Oh, maybe he'll take him to Angelo's, yes, that's just the sort of thing John would like, something sentimental, something that calls back to their beginning. Sherlock will even order some food, that will make John happy, and then Sherlock will tell him he heard him in bed last night and that he feels the same. And then.

And then. 

He smiles to himself, remembering dreams.

Finally, he opens his eyes, ready to begin what will start as a difficult process, but will end beautifully, magically, he's sure of it. 

John isn't next to him. Hope falls around him like dead leaves from trees. But his bedroom door opens and John comes in, fully dressed, shoes in hand, smiling at him. Soft. Crinkled. Sherlock sighs and tries not to let on just how pleased he is — not yet. John sits next to him on the edge of the bed and Sherlock is quietly embarrassed that he's utterly nude under his sheet.  

"Morning." John pulls on his lace-ups.

"Erm, yes, good morning."

"Wanted to pop in and see how you're doing before I go."

"Yes, I'm ... I'm fine." Sherlock is luminous, but he makes sure to only convey "fine" on his face. John is concerned still. He leans forward, just slightly, his arm twitching toward Sherlock's hand but, for some reason, Sherlock can't deduce, he doesn't reach for it. 

"I just want to make sure your feeling — ah — alright, with, erhm ..." John is blushing. John is blushing because he's trying to ask Sherlock if he's sore and it's really about the cutest thing Sherlock has ever seen. Vaguely, Sherlock wonders when he became the type of person who thinks of things as "cute" but he sweeps the thought aside. 

"Yes, John, I'm doing quite well, I assure you." He smirks at John who blushes more and part of Sherlock is horrified at himself because he's _flirting_. He is deliberately flirting. No, more than that. He is _sincerely_ flirting. John smiles again and laughs just a bit, standing. 

"Alright, then, good. Well, I'm off. You stay here and rest. I'll let you know if the cake you and Mary picked turned out." 

Sherlock is momentarily lost. Oh, maybe John wants to wait until after the tasting to tell Mary? That seems odd, but perhaps John just doesn't want to alarm her over the phone. He's about to ask John to meet him for dinner at Angelo's when John speaks first. 

"Oh, and can you work on folding up the rest of those serviettes? Mary wanted to have them all done by today." 

_What? That's not ... right. That's not right. Serviettes? Surely we won't be needing ..._

John is almost out the door when Sherlock sputters, "J-John, wait, I —" He doubles back. 

"Yeah?"

Sherlock doesn't know how to say "Well we fucked and then said you loved me so are you calling off your wedding or not?" so he just kind of gestures at the bed and at himself with an uncertain expression. John blushes again and comes to sit back down on the bed. 

"You ... you want to talk about, um, last night?" John asks, clearly uncomfortable and Sherlock is frozen. "I thought, erhm, maybe you just might ... want to delete it?"

"NO!" Sherlock yells. He covers his mouth, mortified, but John is smiling warmly at his outburst. "I mean ... no, I'd really rather not."

"Okay. Good. Me neither." They contemplate each other in silence and Sherlock is adrift. _What is going on here?_ John reaches out and squeezes Sherlock's hand briefly and starts to leave again but Sherlock is no less lost. John is halfway across the room and Sherlock just blurts out,

"But the wedding? ... Mary?"

John turns around but stays where he is. Distance, Sherlock notes. He wants distance. _Why?_

"Well, erm, Mary always said that if we ever ... I mean, since you came back, and, well, she always knew how I felt about you, probably, erm, before I did, ha, and well ... look, this stuff isn't easy for me." He runs his hand through his hair. "Anyway, she always says if we ever, you know, got together, she um. Wouldn't mind. She always tells me — she says I can have both."

In his mind, Sherlock's mouth hangs open, appalled, but his face stays smooth, a cool mask. _Both_. There has never been a more wretched, spiteful word in the known history of spoken language. John shrugs, uncomfortable.

"She said, and, you know, I know she's right, about how all that domestic stuff bores you, so, it's not like we'd be in a relationship or ... anything. We can just. Whatever, and it's, well, it's fine with her."

"So the wedding ...?" Sherlock asks, cooly.

"Oh, business as usual I suppose." John laughs, awkwardly, rubbing his neck. 

"And ..." Sherlock breathes shallowly, "You and I? _Business as usual_?"

John looks at him, scared and hopeful. "Sure, or, er, whatever you're comfortable with."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, unable to entirely keep the contempt from his face. Long moments stretch out between them, the gap from John to Sherlock widening into a cavernous abyss Sherlock wants to leap into and finally die. Minutely, Sherlock nods and John spins around, quickly out the door. 

"See you!" He calls from the hallway. Doors open and shut. Footprints on the stairs. Sherlock is alone. Sherlock is naked and alone and sore from being fucked by the love of his life who just walked out the door to meet his fiance to finalize the cake for their wedding. It is an exceedingly long time before Sherlock trusts himself to move. 

_She says I can have both._

_Both_.  
  
 _both_  
 _adjective_  
 __1. one and the other; two together  
2. the one as well as the other  
3. alike; equally

Sherlock's mouth tastes like a dead thing. On shaking legs, he walks to the bathroom, and there it is again — his damnable face, in the medicine cabinet mirror, and this time, he looks like a corpse. 

On the sink, by his toothbrush, his mobile buzzes. He doesn't remember having put it there. But it's there and John's name lights up on the screen:

** John  
** You were right (as always) about the cake, mate! Thx ;)

The phone crashes into the mirror and broken shards of glass explode across the sink, the bath, the floor, and Sherlock is screaming, _screaming_ , and sinking down, sitting naked in broken glass.

He doesn't even notice when some of the pieces pierce his skin and are smeared with red.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at onthelosingside.tumblr.com for updates, Benedict Cumberbatch handporn, etc.


	4. The rubble or our sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It would have hurt so much less if he had yelled, if he had railed or beaten Sherlock, the way he did in the restaurant so many weeks ago. But no, John is soft and quiet, like a virus, like death ..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes minor mentions of drug use and self-harm.

There are six days until the wedding — and Sherlock must see John and Mary on every one. 

 _Mary_.

Mary has become completely inscrutable to Sherlock. Never had she bothered him before, never was there but a passing jealousy he worked furiously to hide in the darker rooms of his mind palace. She was good. She was kind. She liked Sherlock, which was always a novelty he hated himself for reveling in. He should be cold, uncaring, undesiring of the empty praise of others. But it never seemed empty. Not until now. 

Now Sherlock can barely look at her. She smiles and all he sees is the word  _both_ stretched across her face. She holds John's hand and touches John's shoulder and _puts her hand in John's back pocket_. She touches John in hundreds of tiny ways that Sherlock will never have, never be allowed to display in public for everyone to see, and she touches him a damn sight more often after the stag night than she did previously, at least in front of Sherlock. Once, that first day, he observes her seeing him watch their interlaced fingers as they walk ahead of him and she _winks_.

That's when Sherlock knows she knows.

She kisses John on the cheek and makes a joke and John laughs Sherlock sees John's smile at her, soft and crinkled. He whirls on his heels, wedding errand deserted, slipping through the crowd and walking 26 blocks back to 221b until his feet are blistered and bleeding and numb. In his pockets, his hands curl around the packs of cigarettes he purchased on his way. 

\--

A client shows up the next day, a young nurse, who apparently dated a man who was never really there — Sherlock resists the urge to tell her  _me too._

_\--_

He fusses with the case and refuses Mrs. Hudson's food and tries to concentrate on the details, tries to flood his mind with stimuli, opens eight separate laptops and carries on 25 different conversations at once, work, work, work will save you. But he can't crack it, can't make sense of it. 

John storms in, blustering to Mrs. Hudson about a row he's had with Mary about some awful, minute thing and Sherlock pretends to ignore him, annoyed he would come here only because of a fight. He forces himself to focus on what's in front of him, but John's standing so close, and he's breathing hard from the stairs and from the fight, and he's wearing red —  _why, why did I tell him once he looks nice in red, stupid, stupid —_ and John know what he's doing _._

The case, the case, the ghostly date — John smells like rosemary, and there is a stain on his sleeve, what did he cook for breakfast? — no, the case, the Mayfly man. "He lives for a day, John." 

But why — _why_ does he do this? He slams each computer closed in turn. 

And then John, John Watson breaks through, in the sitting room, in the room in his mind palace, breaks through the haze of the pressing case and looks at Sherlock, so knowing, so damned  _inviting_ _,_

"Maybe he's _married_." Smirking. John's smirking. 

John knows what he's doing. 

He lets Sherlock stare at him for a time, and that's exactly what Sherlock does. His eyes follow the curve of his ears, the short hair at his neck, the hollow in his throat, sweeps down the buttons of that delicious red jumper, and Sherlock can't help it, he's breathing hard, he cock is thickening, lengthening, just from looking at John, just from being close enough to smell him. John steps toward Sherlock and Sherlock counters immediately with a step back. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to be a consolation prize for a domestic John's had with the future Mrs. Watson, it disgusts him, repels him, John coming to him because he's upset with _her_. _  
_

John doesn't see the internal conflict on his face, or Sherlock is hiding it well, because his smirk transforms into something wicked, something devilish and predatory and it makes Sherlock want, badly. 

Sherlock clears his throat, "So he was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity then?" Dammit, he's breathless. John chuckles, steps forward again, and Sherlock counters, again. 

"Well a bloke can get too much. Nights in, crap telly, or another boring garden party with your fiance's friends."

"You mean spouse."

"Do I?"

"John, who precisely are we talking about here?"

John laughs, advancing, stalking, Sherlock backs into his desk. Papers fall to the floor. "I would think, to the world's most observant man, that would be obvious."

Sherlock's heart is pounding and John is getting closer, until he stands just before him, his feet planted between Sherlock's spread legs, Sherlock's hands on the table behind him as he attempts the only escape option left — he leans back, away from John. John frowns lightly.

"Why are you running from me, Sherlock?" John sounds gruff, greedy, sounds possessive, but also ever so slightly hurt. 

"I'm — I'm not."

John leans in, pressing hips together, hands running up Sherlock's lapels, pulling his chest forward, head down. "You absolutely are." John slides his nose, feather soft, along Sherlock's. They're breathing each other's in — or trying to breathe, as Sherlock has the distinct feeling there is suddenly less oxygen in the flat then there has ever before been. His eyelids slide closed.

"I don't ..." Sherlock tries to be annoyed, tries to be disgusted that John is using him like this, but he can't find sufficient emotion to ground him. All he feel is bittersweet gratitude that John's hands are on him at all and the aching in his groin. 

"You don't what, Sherlock? Try to focus," John brushes his lips on Sherlock's, chuckles. "If you can."

Sherlock opens his eyes, and looks at John's. John's eyes, that are always watching him, drinking him in, sipping him like fine and bitter wine. 

"I don't want to be your revenge."

John pulls back, just enough to separate them, and oh, he looks _guilty_ , but it's a hard, angry guilt. Guilt that doesn't hamper action, but instead fuels it. 

"Don't you?"

Mary's wink from the day before comes to Sherlock then, deliberate and arrogant.  _Whatever you have,_ _I have more_. John is seconds from backing off, Sherlock can tell, so he dips his head and presses into John's mouth, hating himself, but swallowing it as he swallows up John. _Rosemary_ , Sherlock thinks, and then John is on his knees undoing Sherlock's belt, then sucking Sherlock's cotton covered erection into his mouth. He tongues and lathes at it while Sherlock moans unitl his pants are spit soaked and clinging to him.  _  
_

"You're brilliant, Sherlock, completely brilliant." John breathes, between mouthfuls. "So beautiful, so bloody gorgeous. All I can think about this week is you stretched out on my lap, whispering my name." Sherlock's head lolls back and he groans. "Look at me now."

Sherlock finds his body obeys John's commands as if there were no choice in the matter. 

John peels his wet pants away and slides his lips around the head of Sherlock's cock, Sherlock wanting to cry out but trying desperately to be quiet, lest they be overheard. It's not slow or gentle, it's relentless, the way John sucks and bobs and pulls on him, gagging, eyes watering, until Sherlock's comes in the back of his throat and he can feel John's muscles swallowing around him. 

Sherlock is still in John's mouth when John's mobile rings, invading the quiet space. Sherlock knows that ring. John pulls off, licks his lips, and pulls the phone from his trouser pocket and he _answers_ it. Sherlock's jaw literally drops at this audacious display. 

"Hullo ... yes ..." John looks up at Sherlock, wipes his mouth. "Yeah I'm here." 

Sherlock's stomach clenches, nausea overwhelming his faculties, eyes going blurry, he clutches the desk to keep himself upright. John doesn't notice. He stands, turns, and grabs his coat off his chair. _That chair_. Sherlock wipes cold sweat from his face. 

John is putting on his coat, "I'm sorry too ... okay, yeah, I'll get a cab ... what's the address?" 

Opening the front door of the flat, John looks over his shoulder and waves, absently, at Sherlock, the door shutting with a snap. Sherlock falls to his knees.

\--

Once he's cleaned himself up and changed into his pajamas, he takes two packs of cigarettes, climbs the stairs to John's old room, shuts the door and sits on the dusty hardwood. He smokes cigarette after cigarette until the room no longer smells like John. He puts the butts out on the bare mattress, burning the fabric. 

Sherlock thinks about being one of John's _either/ors._

He wants to be his _and_. 

He falls asleep on the dirty floor, vaguely noticing the itching in the old needle scars on his left arm. 

\--

Three days after the stag do, Sherlock Holmes replenishes his stash of cocaine. 

That morning is Sherlock and John's final suit fitting, and Mary is there. When John is in the dressing room, she giggles and put her arm around Sherlock's and says things with horrible double meanings and Sherlock laughs because he doesn't know what else to do. 

In the middle of the night, he's trying to complete an experiment on a batch of eyelids, two lit cigarettes hanging from his mouth. His phone buzzes: John asking if he's busy. Glancing at John's chair, Sherlock puts his cigarettes out on the human flesh, searing it. He grabs his coat, tramping loudly down the stairs and into the night, whirling it around him, cocooning himself, as he walks toward the nearest tube station.

 _I'm not going to use it._ He tells himself. _I just want some to keep in the flat._  He scratches at the inside of his left elbow.  _That will feel better._

His phone sits in the kitchen, ringing feebly, John's name blinking. 

\--

Four days from the beginning, two days to the end. John and Mary come over in the evening for something wedding related. Sherlock doesn't pay attention and Mary scolds him. John is on the sofa looking at his phone. _What in God's name is so interesting?_

"Two days and you'll be well rid of all this wedding stuff, eh?" John gestures around the flat where the details for the Watson wedding are laid out like a crime scene investigation. 

"I suppose so."

Mary sighs, "I hope you're not going to make Mrs. Hudson clean all of it up herself, are you?" 

_No, I'm going to take every last bit and burn it in the fireplace while chain smoking expensive cigarettes._

"We'll see." He says.

"Sherlock, you should at least help her." Mary positively  _whinges_. Insufferable, she has become insufferable. It does not escape Sherlock that, out of her line of sight John rolls his eyes at her, a shared suppressed smile follows between the two men. It's been so long since they've shared a moment like that Sherlock can't recall it. 

" _Sherlock_ ," Mary warns, mothering him.

He offers her his best shark smile. "I'll take care of it, Mary, don't worry." 

She nods, satisfied, standing from the desk, sorting through sheafs of paper in her hands, and Sherlock assumes she's heading into the kitchen to make some tea, but no, she's heading straight for — _no_. Seated in John's chair, she tucks her legs under her and she and John pick up whatever hideous thing they were previously discussing, while Sherlock is clenching his hands in his lap, physically restraining himself from dragging her through the flat and down the stairs.

He can feel the fabric under his fingers, he can hear John breathing his name, and at the same time, he has to see Mary, sitting there, smug and content.

"Excuse me." Utter restraint is what it takes to get him from the sitting room to his bedroom door. He shuts it and simply stands, breathing, attempting to restore sanity. Obscurely he hears Mary and John's voices, then shuffling and doors opening, shutting. Knocking on his door. 

"Sherlock?"

That voice, that sweet voice, not condescending, not scolding, but concerned and kind. He could hear John Watson call to him from beyond the grave if the need arose, he's sure of it. Sherlock opens the door.

"Hey, I sent Mary along home, are you al —"

Urgently he wraps himself around John, pressing the air from him with a gasped _unf_. 

"What is thi — ... Sherlock?"

He shakes his head, silent, like an upset child, he only wants to hold his John and breathe him in, all those scents that make him up and —  _wait_. 

The clean laundry is there, and the clean smell of soap, and rosemary again, but something ... what is it. He holds John by the shoulders vat arm's length and inhales, flipping through options inside himself and then he finds it:

_Clare-de-la-lune._

Sherlock, repulsed, shoves at John, who is observably not pleased. Sherlock circles his bed. 

"What — Sherlock, what is going on?"

He flops down on the far side, turned away from John, wrapping his dressing gown around himself. "Get out."

"What?" 

" _Go away John_."

"This is bloody ridiculous. Why are you acting like this?" Sherlock can hear John's hands on his hips. 

"I said —"

"I heard what you said, you git." John crosses and sits on the bed, by Sherlock's back. His hand rests on one bony shoulder. Sherlock yanks it away. 

"Tell me what's wrong, _now_."

Sherlock shudders in disgust. "You _smell_ like her."

John laughs. _How is this remotely funny?_  "Well she was just here. The whole flat probably does, you probably do too."

"I don't care about the flat and I don't care about me."

He can hear John thinking. 

"It really bothers you, doesn't it?"

Bitter laughter, because John means the bloody perfume, but Sherlock means the whole sordid business. 

John's hand on his shoulder again, supposedly soothing. "I can go hop in the shower if it —"

Sherlock bounds off the bed, "That is NOT the point and YOU KNOW IT!" Shouting, crazed, Sherlock suddenly feels hysterical and angry and sick with jealousy. John feigns confusion. It must be faked because anyone in the world could see this is killing Sherlock, that he's _dying_ every moment closer this horrible, awful wedding ticks. 

"I thought you were, well, okay with ... all this." 

Never did Sherlock genuinely think of John as an idiot until now. "As ever you see but do not observe, _John_." He whines the name with contempt, with mocking, as John's entire existence mocks the man Sherlock wanted to be. 

"Well, I'm sorry, I thought you were ... happy with this arrangement. We can, erm, just go back to the way it was before if you want, obviously."

Sherlock huffs, arms crossed, frustrated by John's apparently calculated ignorance of the situation. "That's definitively _not_ what I want."

"Then _what_ ...?"

Deliberately dense, that what this is, it has to —

But wait.

Oh no. _Stupid._

Sherlock remembers, four days ago, in this room: _"She said, and, you know, I know she's right, about how all that domestic stuff bores you, so, it's not like we'd be a relationship or ... anything."_

Stupid, _stupid_ , why didn't he see this before? John doesn't know, doesn't that Sherlock wants, because John needs hard evidence and Sherlock has provided none, has not said the things John _needs_ to hear. 

Sherlock moves forward, kneeling on the bed in front of John, who is ruffled and perturbed at his inability to understand the situation. Sherlock takes his hands, inhaling deeply, gathering courage, running his fingers over knuckles and callouses. Strong, life-giving, rough but gentle, _beautiful_ hands. He holds John's left hand by the wrist and encloses John's fist in his own. 

"Your hands."

John is looking at their joined fingers, dubious, slightly flushed from skin against skin. "What about them?"

"I can nearly fit your whole hand inside mine."

John is so strong and so brave but there are some risks John won't take and Sherlock knows now that he is one of those risks. Sherlock will take it for him.

"John, I ... that night. I heard you."

"Heard what?"

"I heard what you said when you thought I was asleep."

John abruptly turns a paler shade than Sherlock has seen on a living human face and his mouth opens and closes, like a waterless guppie. Sherlock grips the small, sturdy hands tighter, reassuring, comforting, attempting to transmit his heart into John purely by osmosis. "And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get there myself. John, I lo—" 

"No." Panic. John is immediately all panic, pulling his hands away, scrambling off the bed. "Don't."

Sherlock's fingers are cold and anger lines his face. Must they always be interrupted, even by themselves? John paces, frenetically, running his thumbs over his knuckles, shaking his left hand, the one that used to tremor — or perhaps continues to. 

"I can't. We can't. I'm supposed to get married in _two_   _bloody_   _days_ and I cannot have this conversation with you right now."

 _Outrageous_.

Both men are now plainly furious.

"This is _precisely_ when we should have this conversation, John." He needs all the facts before he makes this choice, Sherlock will _make sure_ he has all the facts. "It's foolish to act without having all the information and this is information we've yet to discuss."

The pacing stops. Feet are planted. John is pointing. "Do not. Do this. Now."

"Well when would be a good time for you then, John?" Sherlock gesticulates wildly, his hands in the air. He is rarely sarcastic but he is seething and John deserves it. 

John is silent, hard steel coming into his yes. He stares Sherlock down, clenching and unclenching his fists, shifting from foot to foot, pursing and unpursing his lips. 

" _When_?" Sherlock insists, quite nearly shouting.

" _How about two years ago_?"

It would have hurt so much less if he had yelled, if he had railed or beaten Sherlock, the way he did in the restaurant so many weeks ago. But no, John is soft and quiet, like a virus, like death, and the question goes through Sherlock like the aftershock of a great explosion. He sinks back on his heels and deflates. 

"John, I'm—"

"Oh yes, Sherlock, I know, you're _sorry_. You're sorry and that's all I ever hear about it. No real explanation, just a slew of empty, yes, empty, apologies and then you pretend to get us both killed and force me to forgive you and _it's just not good enough_ , _Sherlock_. I waited two years of my life for a miracle, and now here you are. Here you are in front of me _every day_ and I'm sorry to have to tell you but you're too late. You're too goddamned late because whether I want it or not, this is the path my life is on now and I'm not hopping off of it just because Sherlock bloody Holmes has gotten up the courage to finally _feel_ something."

"Oh my God." Sherlock breathes. "You don't want to marry her."

There are actual tears in John's eyes but he manages to keep them from spilling out on to his weathered, lined cheeks and at once John has never looked so old and so young and if Sherlock thought he knew the pain he'd put through John before now, he can see that he was wrong. He'll never know, never understand what he did to him, and that maybe there will never be an apology great enough. 

"John, I'm ... truly I—"

"Don't bother, Sherlock."

John, it doesn't have to be like this." Sherlock shuffles forward, unfolds himself from the bed, arms reaching to John. "Please—" 

John forcefully knocks his arms down, shunting Sherlock back a step. "No, stay _exactly_ where you are. Don't move." Cold, hard, pent-up rage has been released into John's features and he glowers at Sherlock in a way that makes him shiver. That makes him sincerely afraid. 

"This time it's your turn, Sherlock. It's your turn to wait, to wonder if things will ever get better, to live in limbo and not be able to move your life forward. It's your turn to have a front seat to the worst day of your life and to see everything you want _die right in front of you_."

John turns as if to leave but stops, looking back, death in his eyes. "You can consider this conversation my note... that's what people do, don't they? _Leave a note_?"

Sherlock gasps, his own false words thrown back in his face like poisoned daggers. John stares, watching his blows hit home, then stomps out of the flat, slamming the door so that the frosted glass panels in the bedroom wall shake. 

\--

Sherlock sits in John's chair for a long time.

He scratches at the needles scars until his skin bleeds.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at teapotsubtext.tumblr.com for updates, Benedict Cumberbatch handporn, etc.


	5. Lost in all of our vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm sorry." Sherlock means it just a vividly as he knows it changes nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapters contains graphic depictions of drug use.

The night before his wedding, John Watson comes to Sherlock's bed.

It's dark and quiet and Sherlock lies under the covers, willing sleep on himself that won't come, will never come, trying to trick his body by laying still with his eyes closed. He hasn't seen John for two days, not since he spit Sherlock's own poisonous words at him and stormed from the flat. A cursory text came from Mary offering supposed "time off" from his wedding duties, assuring him the last few errands could be done without his help. Sherlock has spent the majority of the time trying to determine whether seeing John or not seeing John hurts more — a puzzle that he knows he'll never solve. 

_Just let me lose consciousness for even a few seconds. Bring me some respite from this prison of my mind so I don't have to secure it from a syringe._

The front door of 221b opens. Sherlock might be frightened were he able to feel anything but panic and grief from the crushing weight of this wedding juggernaut , which he's so helpless to stop, but as the door is opened with a key, he realizes there would be no reason to fear. Surely it's Mycroft, here to maybe warn him off the wedding, specifically, and John in general —  _don't get involved, Sherlock, caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock_ — or perhaps to search out the stash of cocaine he undeniably has hidden in the flat. 

 _Go ahead, Mycroft. You won't find it. You could never find it._  

Inertia keeps Sherlock in place as much as the inability to rouse any sort of feeling about Mycroft or his late night visit. The kitchen door of the flat opens and closes and Sherlock cannot even be remotely bothered to deduce his brother's footsteps or what their gate, pace, weight might mean. 

He hears them shuffle about the kitchen, unsure. His bedroom door opens and his nose is filled with rosemary and his mind is awake with past observations and deductions of Mycroft's steps. He doesn't shuffle. Never are his footfalls unsure, nor would one of his many obsessive compulsions allow him to enter throught the kitchen door. 

_Stupid_. 

John, it's John. Sherlock listens as John shuts the door gingerly and crosses to Sherlock's dresser, removing his coat, and Sherlock tries to deduce him in the dark.  

_Steady on his feet, so not drunk, taking time to remove his jacket, so unhurried, placing his keys and phone on the dresser as well, preparing for his next move, which is ..._

Sherlock tenses under his sheets. A fight. John wants to fight, to hurt him again? Perhaps he wasn't satisfied with the nearly broken nose he'd given Sherlock those short months ago. Yes, he was furious when he left the flat two days previous, it would make sense that he — 

"I know you're not asleep." John sighs, toeing off his shoes and kicking them aside. He sounds exhausted. Sherlock clears his throat and sits up in bed, holding the blankets up to cover his nudity, which is pointless in the near pitch of his room, the moon hidden behind clouds, yet still he finds himself clinging to them.  

"To what do I owe this—" 

"Shut up. Just," the heaviest of sighs. "Shut up." John's feet shuffle, unsure — no, not unsure, but somehow still hesitant. John is sure of what he wants but not sure how he will be received. _How can he not know? Anything. He can have anything._ Sherlock supposes John must think him angry after their confrontation. Knees on the end of the bed. John edges close until they're in reach of each other. Sherlock's nose is filled with rosemary — why is it always rosemary? — but no clare-de-la-lune. 

"Are you here to hurt me again?" Sherlock breathes, still more than half expecting a fight, heart hammering from fear but also from the exquisite joy of John kneeling so close to his naked body.  

"I'm sure I am," John is matter of fact. "But not the way you mean." 

John's hands on Sherlock are different. Pushing back on his chest and laying him flat, then pulling the covers away, they ghost over him, softly, reverently, touches that seem as if they're meant to heal but that really burn and tear through Sherlock with their tenderness. Sherlock can't deduce if this is goodbye but for now he doesn't want to know. He closes his eyes. 

John is unhurried, standing briefly to divest himself of his clothing, as if his morning nuptials don't sit on the horizon, as if they aren't always speeding closer to the end, and when John returns to the bed, Sherlock realizes John is studying his body, learning it, _enjoying_ it. He groans, bittersweet pleasure on his tongue, singing in his veins. They are quiet, almost silent, John taking his fill of Sherlock with his hands and his mouth, lathing the endless distance of marble white skin until Sherlock is panting, hard and straining. John straddles him, their lips meeting softly, as he reaches a hand between them, finally stroking Sherlock, lazily, cooing in Sherlock's ear soft words of encouragement and praise, how beautiful he is, how perfect he feels, and when Sherlock whimpers John shushes him gently.  

"I want to give you something." John whispers, low, against Sherlock's ear, and he's at a loss to imagine what until John takes his hand and guides it back around to John's entrance, where Sherlock finds him already open and wet and ready.

_John, alone at his apartment. John, in the dark, thinking of Sherlock. John, stretching and preparing himself, for Sherlock. A gift._

Sherlock's mind floods with images of what must have taken place earlier in the night, and he nearly comes in John's hand, biting down on his lip so hard he tastes copper. His free hand swiftly reaches between himself and John, to still John's slowly pumping arm. John breathes hard in his ear and they're both still for long moments. Cautiously, Sherlock pushes his fingers forward, finding that two digits slip into John with minimal resistance. John moans and his head lolls to the side and Sherlock hisses through his teeth, banging his head once, twice on the headboard. Sherlock works him slowly, until three long fingers are sliding in and out of John slowly but deliberately and Sherlock's wrist is burning from the strain, but he doesn't care because John is pressing back against him, shuddering and keening, begging please, _please_. 

It becomes too much for Sherlock to bear. 

Gently but swiftly he withdraws his fingers and rolls so John is beneath him. Sherlock puts his elbows on either side of John's head and skims his nose over John's cheeks, lips, jawline, breathing him in. Sherlock wants, he _wants_ , but he's woefully under-prepared and refuses to risk angering John again — not when he's so pliant, so lovely, so brilliantly still and serene underneath the weight of Sherlock's body. 

"I don't have any—"

"I don't mind."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "But you said—"

"I know what I said, Sherlock. I also know what you said."

"No, John, you were right, we—"

"Sherlock, please." John's eyes search his, in the dark, pleading and sorrowful, glistening. "Please just let me give you this."

_Anything. He can have anything._

Sherlock nods, once. 

When Sherlock enters him, tears finally slip out of John's eyes. Sherlock kisses them away, tasting salt, tasting regret — tasting heartbreak. They move together slowly, hold each other tightly, and whisper each other's names back and forth, like prayers. It lasts forever and takes no time at all and when Sherlock is nearly there, he can't help but breathe into John's mouth:

"I love you."

" _Yes_."

And Sherlock understands that this is the gift _John_ wanted from _him_ as he feels John shudder and warm moisture spread between their stomachs. Sherlock comes with John's name in his mouth. 

\--

They lie in silence, on each side of the bed, Sherlock on his back and John on his front, his arms tucked under him, folded hands by his cheek. John stares at Sherlock in the moonlight, as if he's something at once beautiful and terrifying, like the vastness of the ocean. 

"You're still going to marry her." It's not remotely a question.

"I am."

Their hands reach toward each other, but don't touch. 

"Why did you have to leave me?" John asks, barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear, and it breaks him. Sherlock is well and truly broken. He gathers a softly crying John up in his lanky arms and rocks him to sleep. 

"I'm sorry." He means it just a vividly as he knows it changes nothing. 

\--

Sherlock wakes alone, the glow of pre-dawn light barely breaching the window. 

He rises with time to perfect John and Mary's wedding waltz before he must leave for the ceremony. 

\--

Sherlock bares his heart — the safely cautious monikers of best man and best friend making it simple and innocuous — solves a murder and accidentally deduces Mary's pregnancy, all in front of a crowd. It is truly the most ridiculous day he's ever endured and when John laughs off their dancing lessons and Mary's eyes are brimming with nothing but  _pity_ , Sherlock finds he can no longer pretend.

He wraps himself in his coat, his armor, and strides away into his own ruined existence. 

\--

While Mr. and Mrs. Watson board a plane to Barbados, Sherlock sits cross-legged on the floor in the dark sitting room of two hundred and twenty-one bee. John's chair — _that chair_ — is over turned and the batting around its wooden structure lays in shreds. Sherlock lifts the small box from where he'd hidden it, so well, but so unnecessarily because no one — no one — has even thought, has even bothered to come look for it. 

Sherlock has no patience for chemistry, no time for seven percent. He doesn't even notice the tears dripping from his chin as he unties the tourniquet from his bicep and the euphoria settles behind his eyes. 

\--

He spends John's sex holiday shooting up and searching for a case he can use to justify it.

Lady Smallwood is like a gift, Charles Augustus Magnussen a blessing, permission and cause to spend nights in the smack house.

_I'm on a case, I'm on a case, I'm on a case_.

\--

Sherlock knows when John is back in London, imagines he can feel it when the plane wheels touch down in Heathrow. Everything in him strains to be near John, to be with John, to hear John's voice, his laugh.

He doesn't call John. He doesn't text him. He cannot, however, get Mary to leave him alone. Calls and texts and coffee and discussion of John's weight gain and cycling habits. Sometimes Sherlock thinks they're both entirely faking although he cannot tell why either of them is trying so desperately hard at it. Perhaps they each have their own secrets. He cannot be fussed to suss hers out. 

When he's alone, Sherlock tells himself he doesn't even so much as think about John Watson. His track marks itch and he readies another hit. 

\--

In the middle of the night when the euphoria and false confidence have worn thin, he doesn't pretend not to think about John. Laying on a dirty mattress in a drug den underneath a threadbare blanket, his broken heart aches when he thinks of John holding Mary in their warm bed in their quiet flat in their mundane, suburban neighborhood. He's sick of penance, of jealousy.

He shivers under the blanket and plots, one name blinking before his eyes. _Janine_.

\--

Cleaned up and temporarily sober, Sherlock meets Janine for coffee and woos her swiftly. Within a week she's staying at 221b while he "works" nights. She bustles about during the day, rearranging things in the flat, wearing Sherlock's clothes. She's nice enough although frightfully boring and Sherlock struggles not to accidentally call her John. One afternoon she curls up in John's chair to read a book with nothing on but one of Sherlock's button-ups and Sherlock snaps at her to get up, forgetting his mask. Under the cover of hastily uttered apologies, Sherlock insists the chair is broken and wouldn't it be terrible if Janine was poked by a spring and he shuffles the chair into his room, piling books and clothes into it, making it unsuitable for lounging. Unconsciously, his fingers brush over the arms of the chair, wistfully. 

Janine laughs and calls him "Sherl" and he smiles outwardly and shudders inwardly. _Just a few weeks_. 

\--

Mycroft strolls in, unannounced, the Sunday afternoon after Janine has become a regular fixture in Sherlock's flat. He raises his eyebrows so high, Sherlock is afraid they're in danger of running off down the back of Mycroft's neck. Sherlock tells him so. 

"He's back in London, you know," is Mycroft's only response. 

"Who."

Mycroft laughs, an insipid thing, then Sherlock sees more pity. _Why, why is it always pity_? Sherlock could take nearly anything but this simpering sentimentality. Sherlock grits his teeth against the itching in his arm, determined to hide it from Mycroft. One twitch in the wrong direction and the self-righteous bastard will know. 

"I don't need to be looked after, _Mycroft_. I know what I'm doing."

Mycroft glances to Janine, who's fluttering about in the kitchen. 

"No, brother mine. Undoubtedly, you do not." 

\--

It's a brilliant plan, really, Sherlock tells himself, cocaine surging through his veins. Brilliant, amazing, fantastic even. He's managed to even impress himself this time. All the pieces move into place, Janine, Magnussen, and now Isaac, the junkie neighbor boy in John's neighborhood, is using again, as a rather pungent member of the homeless network informs him. 

At the smack house he finds Isaac asleep on a mattress upstairs. He stretches out on the neighboring one, pulling his hood over his head, and sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks, blissfully assured.

_The doctor must be a little bit bored by now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at onthelosingside.tumblr.com for updates, etc.


	6. As the dust settled around us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When are you going to get it? I would tattoo your name in lines all over my body. I would take a staple gun and affix white feathers and bones like wings to my back. I would write dunce across my forehead in indelible ink every morning for the rest of my life if I thought it would make any difference."

“Ah, hello, John. Didn’t expect to see you here. Did you come for me too?”

Sherlock is brilliant, Sherlock is radiant, Sherlock is incandescent because the look on John’s face is _perfect_.

\--

Molly Hooper is slapping Sherlock hard across the face and he knows objectively that it hurts but he feels nothing.  
  
He is undeniably high and the entire room knows it and John is clearly furious but he’s standing still and far and _Why, why isn’t he the one smacking me, shaking me, railing at me?_ The cold and the distance weren’t planned for, don’t make sense. Why doesn’t anything John does ever make sense.  
  
But then he’s crossing the room and telling Sherlock how he could have called him and Sherlock has to try hard not to spit right in his stupid, beautiful, maddening face.  
  
 _I’m on a case, it’s for a case._  
  
Sherlock tries distracting him, deducing his new inane cycling habit — but John says he doesn’t want to play games and when Sherlock thinks of John and Mary in their flat, John and Mary out on dates, John and Mary doing the dishes and folding the laundry and bloody play-acting house together — when Sherlock knows what John really thinks about when he lies in bed with Mary — he very nearly calls John a liar.

  _Just get him back to the flat._

 --

Mycroft. Anderson. Bloody Empty Hearse club members combing through everything. Searching. He curls up in his chair and pouts, willing everyone around him but John to leave immediately. He puts Mycroft on semi-permanent mute.

“Hey, what happened to my chair?”

Inwardly Sherlock tightens and he fights to display the petulance of a child.

“It was blocking my view to the kitchen.”

“Well, it’s good to be missed.”

Sherlock could murder him. Missed? _Missed_? What a disgusting, small word for what Sherlock feels for John when he’s away, when he’s gone — when John belongs to someone else. How grossly understated. Sherlock makes something up and then Mycroft is asking if Anderson and that woman have found anything.

 “There's nothing to find!” Sherlock did every last bit of it and chucked the needles in Mrs. Hudson’s bins before he left for the smack house. _Just leave, everyone just leave, please._ Sherlock can’t focus on this many people when he’s coming down from a high and his head is pounding and he wants to wrap himself up in John but Mycroft is heading toward his bedroom and he’s going to ruin everything, absolutely everything.

 “Okay, stop! Just stop.”

 Let them all think he’s hiding drugs. Sherlock doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything but seeing John’s face once he knows what Sherlock’s really got hidden behind that door.

 --

Mycroft sends everyone off and then he blusters at Sherlock as if he should care but he won’t leave and Sherlock needs John _alone_ and he can’t take it anymore and suddenly Mycroft is smashed up against the kitchen door frame, hand twisted behind his back. Sherlock thinks he might just fracture his arm for the fun of it, just to make withdrawal that much more bearable, just to hear Mycroft whine and watch the British Government lurk about in a sling. But then John is there, and he fixes things, like he always fixes does — like he always _used_ to — and then Mycroft is gone.

Finally it’s just John and god, has he always smelled this good? _Jesus_. Sherlock can’t go weeks without this. He can’t go days or hours. He wants to drape himself over John and inhale him. Strip him from his coat and jumper and button down and bury his face in John’s stomach and just breathe.

Then Sherlock smells it, under the cologne, under the rosemary — Clare-de-la-lune — and he remembers and looks at John and his falsely innocent face makes Sherlock so angry that he feels not one iota of remorse for what he’s about to do.

He baits John — bored, sad, domestic John — with the Magnussen case and ducks into the bathroom. He lets the tub fill and listens as Janine exits the bedroom and, muffled though it is, Sherlock can hear, can _feel_ the anger, the jealousy, the absolute horror coming off of John that Sherlock had a nearly naked woman is bedroom.

Perfect. It’s perfect. _This is what it’s like, John._

Janine pops in and Sherlock splashes her with water, and they’re giggling, and Sherlock is euphoric, but it’s just a game and Sherlock shunts her through the frosted glass doors into his room quietly before he undresses.

\--

Sherlock kisses Janine goodbye and it’s squishy and horribly wet and Sherlock can see John squirming and hiding his face out of the corner of his eye. _Brilliant_.

The door shuts with a snap and just as Sherlock is dropping his smile he’s slammed hard up against the wood, his right arm twisted behind his back in a perfect imitation of the hold Sherlock pressed in on Mycroft not an hour ago.

" _Just what do you think you’re playing at_?” John is quiet in that way he has — the way that’s more dangerous than an explosion, more frightening than combat. John is so much more with so much less than anyone Sherlock has ever met.

“I’ve told you,” Sherlock says, evenly. “I have a _girlfriend_.” He says _girlfriend_ in the tone he only reserves for idiots and children and he can feel John seething. John tightens his grip.

“Tell me it’s for a case.”

Truly, Sherlock almost laughs, almost chokes on the arbitrary unfairness that John is sharpest when he’s hurt, when he’s angry, when internally he’s broken open and bleeding.

“It’s not.” Sherlock lies easily. When he thinks of John saying his wedding vows, smiling at Mary, soft and crinkled — _why can’t anything of you be mine?_ — the entire charade is easy, is simple, is just. He tells himself the pain behind Johns quiet anger doesn’t bother him.

It will eat at him until he dies.

“Sherlock. Tell me. It’s for. _A case_.” John demands again, and he sounds like he’s begging, twisting Sherlock’s arm more, tighter, and Sherlock squirms against the door. He twists his head around to look in John’s eyes as best he can.

 “No.”

Sherlock expects him to let go, to ease off, but John just pushes tighter, breathing hard through his nose and pursing his lips. They stand there so long Sherlock feel the ridged paneling begin to indent his skin.

“You remember what I told you that first night, Sherlock? What did I bloody say?”

Sherlock remembers it vividly because he thought it was real, for one mad moment he thought he could truly belong to John — and that John would belong to him right back. Finding out he was wrong was the greatest atrocity in Sherlock’s pathetic life and he jerks his head clumsily, side to side, refusing to speak, refusing to look at John any longer.

“Don’t shake your head. I know you remember.”

Sherlock tries for bravado. “Maybe I deleted it.”

Johns barks a laugh and twists Sherlock back around, hand still circling Sherlock’s wrist, leaning his body into Sherlock’s until they’re flush, ankle to ankle, hip to hip, and he’s _smiling_. Sherlock knows that smile, knows how John like this is nothing but dangerous and knows he should be afraid but he’s not. He’s warm and hard and angry and so jealous and he _wants_. John puts his grinning mouth to Sherlock’s ear.

“You’re a bloody good liar, Sherlock, but you’re dreaming if you think I’m going to believe you’ve ever deleted anything about me.” John licks a stripe up the straining tendon on the side of Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock slams his head against the door, hissing through his teeth.

“You smug bastard.”

John laughs again, and it’s black, worse than humourless. Sherlock tries hard to free himself, jerking his sore wrist and is absolutely surprised at how strong John is and how little give in his grip Sherlock achieves. He wants to give in, to push against John, let John take over, take him over. But he has to try to prove this point, to make this stand, or his life will be floating in blasted purgatory forever.

“Let me go.” Sherlock doesn’t mean it, can’t make himself mean it and John takes Sherlock’s right wrist in his other hand and pins both arms back against the door, elbows bent, in a distinct surrender position.

“Do you really want me to?” John whispers, like the devil, like cocaine itself. John’s anger is so still, so calm, so devious in its silence and Sherlock knows he can free himself with a word — but he won’t.

Because John is like a drug. Because John is better than a drug.

“No.”

And then John’s teeth are on him in every visible place he can reach, neck and chest and jaw and earlobes, and Sherlock can _feel_ the bruises forming.

“ _John_.”

“Quiet.”

Sherlock twists his hands from John’s slackened grip and yanks John to his mouth, kissing him more with teeth than lips, while John’s free hands rip open Sherlock’s white shirt and expensive buttons clatter on the floor. John deftly applies his mouth to Sherlock’s chest and stomach. More bruises.

“You want her to see, don’t you?” Sherlock huffs.

“I said be quiet.”

Sherlock smiles and digs his fingers into John’s short hair. Sherlock will be black and blue and purple and red and it _hurts_ and it’s perfect. John is bent half over, sucking and chewing at the skin along Sherlock’s waistline, take a particularly nasty bite out of Sherlock’s hip bone. Sherlock cries out.

“How many, John?” Sherlock pants and John growls and Sherlock assumes it’s because he won’t keep his mouth shut. “What’s going to be enough?”

John bites again, hard. “Something permanent would do.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes because he’s had enough of John not understanding, of John seeing and not observing or not even seeing at all. He hauls John into standing position by his coat and swings him around, slamming him against the door. Sherlock kisses him softly but tears violently, angrily at his coat.

“When are you going to get it?” Sherlock throws the coat across the room and pulls at John’s shirt, untucking it, so the tails hang loose and Sherlock can get one hand up around the small of John’s back, skimming up and down the well-toned muscles, dipping briefly below the belt and waistband. He places the other hand on the door by John’s head, leans into him and speaks as soft and as low as he can. “I would tattoo your name in lines all over my body. I would take a staple gun and affix white feathers and bones like wings to my back. I would write dunce across my forehead in indelible ink every morning for the rest of my life if I thought it would make any difference.” Sherlock trails his hand around the front of John’s trousers where he unbuckles the belt and slips it from the loops. “If I thought it would make you mine.”

Sherlock drops the belt and then follows suit, pushing at John’s trousers and pants, pulling John’s prick out and sliding the ring of his fist up and down slowly until the tip is glistening with moisture. John watches with his jaw gaping open when Sherlock leans forward and rubs the pre-ejaculate around his mouth, like a balm, coating his lips. John’s whines and his knees give a bit and Sherlock places his other hand on John’s stomach, holding him tight against the door.

“This is what you really want, isn't it? To erase what she left on me?” Sherlock’s tongue slips out, softly lapping at John, then licking the shining moisture from his cupid’s bow. He hums at the salty taste. “Well this is all she's had, John. My arrogant, show-off mouth.”

John’s hips stutter forward and Sherlock sloppily tongues at him.

“Go ahea—”

John shoves him back fiercely, knocking him on his arse and clambers to kneel over him, straddling Sherlock’s hips, grabbing and yanking at his hair.

“Do you _ever_ shut up?” And then they’re kissing and frotting madly on the floor by the coffee table, the precise spot Sherlock shot up for the first time in such a long time, in years, less than a month ago and Sherlock thinks to himself as John rocks into him, if he could have this, if he could just have this he would never want to shoot up again for the rest of time.

John is grunting wildly into Sherlock’s mouth and smearing moisture from the tip of his cock all over Sherlock’s trouser front and Sherlock can’t think, can’t think anything but yes and he moans pleases and runs his hands up and over John’s shoulders and back. He truly thinks he could come in his pants like an over sensitive teenager but he doesn’t care and then John’s hands are between them, releasing Sherlock’s bruised cock from his too- tight pants. John curls his right hand around them both, then roughly and without warning, shoves the fingers of his left into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Suck.” John bites out.

Sherlock groans and sucks hard, clumsily, awkwardly, wet and careless on John’s fingers, memorizing callouses and hangnails, scars and nail bed radii, eyes closed, humming when John whines, almost pained, and rubs their pricks together. “You’re fucking _mouth_.” John is kissing him on the neck, desperate and angry and he’s so good like this, and when he pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth to switch hands and rub the salvia over both their cocks, Sherlock tells him.

“You’re so good, John, fuck, so _good_.”

“ _Jesus christ_.” John’s head is thrown back when they finally slide against each other wetly, hot and hard and fast. Sherlock is propping himself with one arm, extended behind his back, and his elbow is aching from the strain and the rug is leaving imprints on his palm, but all that matters is getting his opposite hand up under John’s button down to pinch and pull at his nipples.

“Fuck!” John shouts, arching his back, more pre-cum leaking from him and adding to the sticky mess inside John’s fist.

“Come on, John, yes, _come on_.” Sherlock’s eyes are wide open at the sight of John on his lap, writhing under his twisting, pinching fingers, rutting against him and absolutely mewling and just then John whines please and actually calls him _babe_ and Sherlock can’t stop himself from coming, violently shaking and clawing at John’s flesh with his hand.

Vaguely, Sherlock is aware of an animalistic grunting and John’s dick throbbing and pulsing against his, as a second burst of warm and wet spreads over Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock pulls his hand from John’s shirt to help support himself as the other arm is shaking, about to give. John’s head is hanging down, knees digging into the rug, hand still between them, still holding them both. The room smells heavily of sweat and sex and Sherlock wants to bottle it and save it for when he’s bored, for when he’s lonely, for the next time John leaves.

Finally, John looks up at Sherlock, the same way he did on the tube carriage all those months ago — another lifetime ago — after Sherlock tricked him, after he made cruel jokes, but John doesn’t laugh now. It’s one of the many looks from John that make Sherlock hold his breath and keep very, very still.

John looks down at Sherlock’s shirt front, where the majority of the whitish fluid from both of them has splattered. He drags the first two fingers of his free hand through it, brings it to Sherlock’s mouth and rubs the moisture around the edges of Sherlock’s lips and then pushes inside, running it up and down Sherlock’s tongue, pushing far enough back to almost trigger Sherlock’s gag reflex and then pulling slowly out. When he’s finished, Sherlock is hard again.

“Tell me I won’t have to see you with her anymore.”

Sherlock sees red. He shuts his eyes so tight that he literally sees red. “ _What_?”

“Tell me I won’t.” Now John is speaking as if to a child and Sherlock is infuriated. He knocks John’s hands away from him and sits up, shunting John backwards, spreading his legs so John is sitting on the floor and not on Sherlock’s lap. John has the audacity to look annoyed.

“I will do _whatever_ I please so long as I have to endure you going home to that wretched woman _every single night_ instead of coming back here to me!” Sherlock is shouting at the top of his voice, loud enough to alarm even the proprietors of Speedy’s Cafe and he doesn’t care. “Both. Both you told me, John. Remember?” John just sits, wide-eyed, stoic and still, like a mountain in a gale, except for the rapidly rippling muscle in his jaw. In this moment, he hates John’s false calm more than ever before and he grabs his shoulders, digs in his fingers, shaking him.

“You know that sick feeling? The heat that prickling up the back of your neck? The walls creeping in on you, the world spinning, tipping, the pain, the dizzying horror you felt when her lips were on mine, John? That’s both. _That's both, John_. And I can’t stand it any more than you can.”

“Is that what this entire thing is about? What do you want me to say, that I feel that same way? That I’m jealous?”

“Leave it to you to boil down the feeling of each and every single cell in my entire body burning and choking and _dying_ when I watch you with Mary to such a small and petty word like ‘jealous.’” Sherlock drops his arms from John and puts his head in his hands, exhausted by sex and by anger, unwilling to look at Johnn until he hears him sigh dejectedly. Sherlock peeks over his fingers and then drops them.

“I know. I know it.” John’s arms come around him and he presses their foreheads together. “God, I _wanted_ you like this.” He rolls his head, eyes shut tight, across Sherlock’s, grimacing. Pained. “I wanted you miserable, I really did. I wanted you to know what it was like too, to want and not get, to have and to lose. And here you are, fucking _pining_.”

Sherlock sniffs, leaning into John. “One more thing I excel at, I suppose.” And John laughs and it's brilliant, it’s glorious. Sherlock twists his neck and kisses John’s cheek, just because it’s there, just because he wants to, just because he loves John. John sighs and hums and tightens his arms and hope, there’s hope, suddenly, all around them, in the very oxygen molecules floating about, Sherlock feels it.

John.

John loves him, wants to be with him, Sherlock is deducing him quickly, quietly, furtively, and he concludes John is just moments from saying he’ll choose Sherlock over Mary. Sherlock can tell — he knows, he _knows_.

“John. I will cross every line I have to until you’re here with me and not somewhere else.”

John leans back and looks at him with eyes that are somehow both sad and happy. “I know.”

The hope is going to burst through Sherlock’s fingers and the tips of his ears like sunbeams.

“But it’s no bloody good, is it?”

Liquid hope turns to spoiled milk inside Sherlock’s stomach and he screws his eyes shut.

“ _What do I have to do_?”

John drops his arms and sits back and starts to tuck himself back in his pants and trousers. “She’s fucking pregnant, Sherlock. And that’s all there is to it.” His finality sends panic creeping down Sherlock’s spine and suddenly he can feel withdrawal like the edge of a razor blade against his nerves. When he opens his eyes and sees John calmly sorting out his clothes, he feels manic. He’s going to make John see, make John understand — there’s nothing for him now but this. But John.

He scrambles away from John, domestic, sad John, who’s carefully attempting to clean himself — although of the two of them, John has less of the mess on him. _How apropos._ Sherlock pulls off his suit coat, hastily wiping his front off with it and then throws it in John’s face, zipping himself up to John’s sputtered, “Oi!”

Sherlock crosses to the space behind his chair and wrestles his violin case out from stacks of useless cold case files. He slams it on the desk and clicks open the brass fasteners and retrieves his bow, running his pale, shaking fingers over the genuine horse hair and mahogany. John is watching warily him from the floor, cleaned up, but still on the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“I love this bow.”

“Is this really the time—”

“My father gave me this bow the day I turned eleven. He said a great violinist should have a great bow.”

“Sher—”

Deftly, Sherlock snaps the bow like a number two pencil and throws it on the ground just in front of John.

“Sherlock!” John shouts, mad with disbelief, jumping up. He picks up the bow pieces, now connected only by fraying strings, and holds them like a sick patient.

In a burst of motion, Sherlock rips his Stradivarius from its case, holds it high over his head and brings in crashing down on edge of the desk, three times, until it’s only splintered wood and snapped strings dangling from useless tuning pegs.

“Have that, too.” He discards the wasted instrument at John’s feet. He only stares, open mouthed. Sherlock’s tone is grim, is toxic, poisonous. “I’ve no use for it.” He swipes the case, and consequently several messy stacks of paper, onto the floor and stomps into the kitchen.

“And all this?” Sherlock waves his arms over the table where his chemistry tools sit out, beakers and burners and tubes and his exceedingly expensive microscope. He overturns the table and it will be months until every last broken shard of glass is found. “There you are!” He hears himself shrieking now, sees fear on John’s face, but he can’t stop.

He bounds out to the landing to fetch his coat, and it would be comical if he weren’t frightening himself. Back in the flat, he whips out his detective's kit and fishing from it his small, retractable magnifying glass.

“What about this, John? Do you want this as well?!” He drops it on the ground and stomps it beneath his heel. “IT’S ALL YOURS NOW.” He chucks the rest of the kit at John, who dodges it, arms up, eyes so wide they’re almost more white than any other color, but he’s silent, always so silent and still and Sherlock, who is a chaotic, frenzied amalgamation of motion — always inside, frequently outside — is sick to death of the static.

“Nothing to say, John? Always so quiet, always so still, never say what you’re thinking. And you’d never, never dare tell anyone what you really want, would you? Here then. Let me help you.” He pulls a small knife from his trouser pocket and flips open the blade. He presses it to his chest, just above his heart, his eyes wild, breathing hard. “This is it, isn’t it? What you really want?”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” John breathes, clearly too horrified to move.

“I’ll just carve it out for you, then, shall I? I may as well since you already have it and it makes absolutely no difference at all, does it? DOES IT?!” Sherlock is nearly screaming and he doesn’t care and he feels the knife breaking skin and a bead of blood begin to roll down his chest and _he doesn’t care_.

John finally thaws, standing, the doctor in him taking over, approaching Sherlock with cautious steps, hands up. “Okay, Sherlock, okay. Try to calm down.”

Sherlock is motionless, bits of glass and plastic under his shoes, knife to his bare chest, surrounded by broken wood and shattered glass and he cannot move. The crystalline clarity granted by the rage and madness he felt moments before is gradually giving way to fuzziness and confusion, disorientation.

“I … I can’t—”

“It’s alright. It’s going to be alright. You’re going through withdrawal right now, remember? You’re not thinking clearly.”

John has to understand. “It’s not, it’s not just the withdrawal, it’s, it’s—”

“Shh, I know. I know.”

Carefully, slowly, John plucks the knife from his hands, closes the blade and chucks it onto the coffee table. While Sherlock is still frozen, he checks the cut on his chest and his hands are strong and soft and Sherlock leans into them, eyes closed, heart aching.

_Fix me, John. Fix me. Like you always do — like you always used to._

“Only a knick.” John’s hand on Sherlock’s neck and then his cheek thumb brushing over the sharp bone. “Sherlock. I get it, alright? I get it.”

His eyes open and focus again and there’s John, in the broken remnants of their flat, of their life together, and Sherlock’s resolve breaks too, his point made and his purpose achieved. He falls to his knees, wrapping his arms around John’s waist, burying his face in his abdomen.

“Oh, you mad bastard.” John’s hands are soft in his hair and his voice is sad but not hollow and it’s so _fond_. Sherlock just threatened to cut out his own heart in front of him and John is somehow still fond.

_Only John._

“Only you.” Sherlock murmurs into John’s warm stomach.

Sherlock is crying and kneeling in shards of wood and glass and John slides down to kneel with him, arms circling, holding tightly.

“Okay. Okay. We’ll figure something out. I’ll talk to Mary. And you and I — we’ll figure it out.”

\--

When Mary shoots Sherlock, he sees nothing but jealousy in her eyes.


	7. You've been here before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There’s a plan. There’s always a plan, but as is unfortunately usual when Sherlock is involved, it’s going to hurt both him and John a great deal. Among all the things Sherlock hates about himself, this is what he hates the most."

So these are Mary’s secrets.

Later he will berate himself for not deducing the truth, but now … now he’s too busy trying to stay alive.

\--

Laying on the floor among the dregs of his mind palace, next to the worst parts of himself, Sherlock is so tired. It feels as if he’s been tired his entire life, running full tilt and never stopping, tearing himself apart at 9.8, free falling to just this point and he’s so glad, so relieved that its finally over and he can finally breathe — finally _stop_ breathing.

But one thing breaks through, surges through the great muddied ocean of his mind and breaks the surface film with a splash, with a crash, awakening his senses — and it’s the usual.

John Watson.

Always.

Always you.

John’s name thrums inside of him, a heartbeat when his own has stopped, and he holds on to it, uses it to pull, to drag himself up from oblivion.

There will be a time to rest — it is not now.

Sherlock’s eyes are open.

\--

Then there’s Mary, and a soft singsong, demanding silence, an inherent threat left unspoken. Sherlock is afraid and he can’t make his lips move and then there’s nothing.

\--

When finally he surfaces, it’s to Janine and Sherlock feels a guilt so deep in his bones, even morphine couldn’t alleviate the pain of it.

He will never once admit it.

\--

John won’t come in the room alone, but instead sits outside the door on the marbled grey, industrial carpet and doesn’t move — Sherlock can see his feet. He will come in with the nurses, or when someone brings that disgusting food, to check on Sherlock’s condition, to insist he eat. The nurses point at Sherlock’s bedside chair and tell John he’s welcome to stay. John’s eyes flicker over the bandages on Sherlock’s chest and he pales — he can’t bear to look at it, at him, Sherlock can see. John insists he needs to let Sherlock rest, and steps back outside, after the nurse. Sherlock drifts in and out but when his eyes are open, he keeps them on John’s shoes, at the edge of the door frame.

He sees the question in his eyes when John is in the room, the fear, pain, “What if I’d lost you again?”

Sherlock doesn’t have an answer.

For the rest of his life he’ll do what he can to make sure the question is entirely irrelevant.

\--

Sherlock may be a ridiculous man, but as he clambers down the hospital fire escape, maneuvering an IV stand over the metal stairs, short of breath and bleeding into himself, he thinks about how much more ridiculous he is where John Watson is concerned.

\--

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock watches Billy drag John’s chair into the sitting room, silently annoyed that someone else has to touch it at all.

“Right here, Shezza?”

“Yes, and for God’s sake, call me Sherlock.”

“Sorry.”

The chair in its rightful place, Sherlock limps over to the side table and form his pocket, he pulls it — Clare-de-la-lune — and plunks it down. Idly, he flicks the top and the metal lid makes the faintest pinging sound.

“That it then?”

“No, Billy. We’ve more work to do.”

\--

There’s a plan.

There’s always a plan, but as is unfortunately usual when Sherlock is involved, it’s going to hurt both him and John a great deal.

Among all the things Sherlock hates about himself, this is what he hates the most.

\--

When John bursts through the door at Leinster Gardens, Sherlock is sitting just up the hall in the wheelchair Billy nicked for him, bent over, teeth clenched against the pain tearing through his chest, through his heart. _The inferior vena cava, bullet puncture diameter approximately — **shut up**_.

“Sherlock, jesus! What the bloody hell is going on?” John is rushing toward him, angry, concerned, furious for being made to worry. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just run out of the hospital like that. There’s a hole punched through the middle of for fuck’s sake!”

“John, listen to me.”

“No, you listen. I don’t know what this is all about but I’m not going along with any of it unless you let me check your vitals. Now.”

“John, I’m fi—”

“Sherlock, if you try to tell me you’re fine, I swear to god I will kill you myself.”

John’s hands are on him, checking his pulse with two strong fingers, pressed gently into his neck, staring at his watch, counting, then he squints down and pulls open Sherlock’s coat, unbuttoning the white Dolce and Gabbana, to prod at Sherlock’s bandages, which, Sherlock can tell, should soon be slowly staining red.

“Well, this should hold for now, but if you’re not careful, you’re going to tear your stitches. Honestly, Sherlock, what could be so goddamned important?”

“You.”

John blinks at him.

“What — wait, what do you mean?”

“Did you see the perfume bottle?”

“Yeah, you mean Mary’s? What was that supposed to mean?”

“I can’t, ahh!” Sherlock tries to stand but pain surges through his ribs and he stumbles into the wall, reaching for John. He reaches out to support Sherlock him.

“I can’t explain it all now, but I’ll just need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

John snorts, derisively, at odds with the capable, doctorly demeanor.

“Do I have a choice?”  
Sherlock pulls back from John, stares at him in disappointment and disbelief.

“John. Of course you do.”

And John, oh, John, John is so hurt, still so hurt by everything that’s past, Sherlock knows, the betrayal of his false death still stings fresh every time Sherlock asks him for anything, everything. I’ll make it right, John, I will, I will.

“John … you have every right to choose not to trust me now — or ever again. I concede that readily. Say the word and we’ll go back to the hospital.” Sherlock eases himself back into his wheelchair, contrite. He searches John’s eyes, imploring, desperate to convey that he knows John deserves to consciously make this choice, whether or not it’s foolish to act without more information. Sherlock knows he owes John consent, owes him decisions, autonomy over what’s happening to him, and he will give it to him. Never again will Sherlock force John to blindly follow him, expect him to be a step behind. Now and always, he will ask.

John sighs.

“Of course. Of course I trust you.”

Sherlock floods with relief like rays of sunshine. He would lunge for John and kiss him if the inside of his thoracic cavity wasn't pulverized and bleeding.

“Alright. Listen to me carefully. I’m going to say and do a lot of things tonight that won’t make sense — I will even outright lie. You need to act like you believe every word, even if it’s painful or at odds with what you know to be true. Can you do that?”

“Sherlock, why—”

“Just answer me.”

“Okay. Yes.”

“John if … if what I — if some of the things I say … John, it’s going to hurt. “

“What?”

“What’s about to happen. It’s going to hurt. Badly. It will be very hard.”

John is chuckling, ever sardonic, trying to hide the fear.

“Well, I’ve been through worse, eh?”

Sherlock looks at John’s clenched left hand, dangling by his side, always betraying the real feeling behind the stoic mask. Its knuckles are white and Sherlock reaches toward them, brushing gently until John’s grip eases and his fingers fall open.

“No. No, John. Tonight … tonight will be different. And … I’m so sorry. After what I’ve already put you through, that you should have to face this now. I should have prevented this. I should have—”

“Sherlock.” John bends and his knees and crouches in front of Sherlock, taking his hand and squeezing gently. “I’m sorry too. For … everything.”

Sherlock looks back at him, eyes wet, cheeks flushed, afraid and uncertain but unequivocally alive and he wants to say a million things, explain his absence, tell him what he wants, how all he wants is John — but truly John could hear none of it, not until his misguided trust in Mary is excised, not until his heart is shattered once more can it be rebuilt.

John clears his throat and looks away, unable to bear the vulnerability that has crept into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Here.” Sherlock presses an earpiece into John’s hand. “Put this on.”

He ignores the question in John’s eyes and, while John presses the device into his left ear, Sherlock leans forward and slides his pallid fingers up through the woolen lapels of John’s blue jacket, pulling at the collar until stands straight. Despite the dank stone surroundings and the cold air drafting around them, water from leaking pipes echoing drips throughout the empty house, touching John still brings a blush to Sherlock’s face, still quickens his bleeding heart. Sherlock cards his fingers through the ash blonde hair, mussing it, coaxing it to stick up at all angles and — he’s unable to stop himself, it’s unavoidable, impossible to resist — rubs his fingers into John’s scalp, massaging and soothing, wishing he could impress his love for John  into him through the tips of his fingers.

John leans into his hands, eyes closing and actually sighs. Sherlock feels lightheaded, desperately needed blood rushing from his head. He stumbles forward, slipping from his chair, and John’s strong arms lift and hold him effortlessly, curling around his sides and pressing along his rib cage and Sherlock groans in real and figurative heartache. _Why can’t it just be like this, John’s hands on me, why can’t it just be easy?_ He rubs his cheek along John’s face, kisses the tip of his nose, shaking with pain.

“Shh, it’s alright. Remember, I told you we’ll figure it out. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better, right?”

Sherlock laughs lightly, bitter, and coughs.

“Things are about to get worse. Sit down, John.”

\--

Sherlock’s heart may be starved of blood and breaking but his vision is still beyond perfect and when he flips the light, he can see John’s face like it was immediately before him and anything, anything in the world Sherlock would have given to prevent this.

_Hold on, John. Hold on._

\--

John is shouting, John is yelling at Sherlock to shut up and he wishes, oh, he wishes he could. _It’s all a lie, John, remember, remember._

But it hurts too much and Sherlock can see the lies are falling on him like the truth and he tries to say with his eyes that it’s not his fault, that none of it’s true, even as with his mouth he tells him he deserves it all.

And then John asks why, why is Mary like this because she wasn’t supposed to be Sherlock can hear what’s implied: _she wasn’t supposed to be like you_. His injured heart is stuttering in pain and Sherlock can _feel_ his stitches give way beneath his shirt. He looks away from John’s broken face as the blood begins to pool, because he cannot bear it.

“Because you chose her.”

Then he looks at John, because he has to. He’d rather be shot again every day than endure this, but he _has_ to.

This is hell. This is what Sherlock’s hell would consist of, he’s sure of it, pushing John away from him, telling him his pain was of his own making. _Hell_.

He pushes, he must push, he tries to bring John back to the task at hand, to see Mary what for what she is, what he has to now be, a client and a client alone, and finally John seems to remember, to realize just enough that this is all part of the plan, all something Sherlock is orchestrating, but it doesn’t temper his anger even a mite.

“Your way. Always your way.”

Momentarily Sherlock is happy to be bleeding out because he deserves it, deserves to be crumbling to bits for having done this to John, for actively doing it, and for everything he’s done that’s come before. What John has put Sherlock through since his return will eternally pale in comparison to the two years of false grief and loss gift wrapped from Sherlock to John.

They sit in their chairs and let Mary blather and Sherlock delivers the biggest lie of his life, the most disgusting sentence he’s ever crafted, placed on a silver platter and handed to the destructor of his happiness.

“You saved my life.”

He doesn’t have much longer — either he’ll die or the ambulance will arrive, and seeing Mary look at John, deducing that she thinks she’s gotten away with this atrocity, he cannot decide which outcome is best.

_John Watson is definitely in danger._

Save John, protect John, save John, protect John, it will be Sherlock’s mantra until his mind liquefies inside his own skull.

“You can trust Mary.”

 _It’s a lie John, it’s all a lie._ As Sherlock falls to the floor, bracketed by well-meaning paramedics, he reaches for John, can’t stop extending his arms toward him, the impossible distance between them, _remember, remember_.

The last thing he sees is John, chest heaving, looking up at Mary.

 _Remember_.

\--

Sherlock wakes in the same sparse hospital room he escaped. Mycroft is sitting in the chair by the door — never would do for the British Government to be too close.

“How long?”

“Two weeks.” Mycroft stands and drops today’s paper on Sherlock’s blanketed knees. He closes his eyes and presses his heavy head back into the woefully under-stuffed pillows.   
“For god’s sake.”

“Mummy’s been here every day, reading you Lewis. She’s read all the way up through _Prince Caspian_.”

“Is he alright?”

“Oh yes, still ruling Narnia I believe.”

Sherlock opens and narrows his eyes.

“Honestly, I’ll never understand why you find that kind joke so funny.”

“I know.” Mycroft smiles, his eyes crinkling devilishly, and Sherlock can’t be bothered. He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing, willing fear and panic away, but the beeps from the heart monitor speed up, betraying him.

“John is fine — physically at least. He’s staying at his old flat for now.”

Sherlock’s head jerks up.

“ _His_ old flat?”

“Please, Sherlock, did you really think he’d go running back to 221B after all that?”

Yes, he really did. Best not let Mycroft know.

“And … _her_?”

“At their house. They do, still work together, however, but I am assured they’re not exactly on speaking terms.”

“Is he safe?”

“Sherlock, I’m sure—”

“Is. He. Safe.”

Mycroft sighs with the contempt of the entire British nation.

“He’s covered 24 hours a day and they’re both under level four surveillance.”

“Make it five.”

“Sherlock!”

“ _Five_.”

“Fine. But only because you nearly bloody died. Again. Honestly, was all that gallivanting really necessary? If you’d just called me—”

“Yes, thank you, I do think I need my rest.” Sherlock attempts to roll over but the searing pain throughout his entire abdomen prevents that sort of mobility.

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“What?” The bottom of the world is dropping out and Sherlock tells himself to stay in the bed, while his nerves are twitching to leap from the bed and find John. Mycroft leans on his umbrella.

“He found me at the Diogenes and demanded I convey the message.”

Sherlock is hyperventilating, he’s sure of it, vision clouding, the feeling of death imminent, a list titled _symptoms of a panic attack_ flitting through him. Outwardly, other than the slightly increased beeping from the monitor, Sherlock shows no signs.

“What exactly did he say?”

“I believe the gist was, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’” Despite Mycroft’s somewhat sadistic predilections, Sherlock can see he takes no joy in delivering this news. He can’t think of one thing to say and fears he might lose whatever small amount of fluid that’s churning in his stomach if he opens his mouth at all. He turns his head from Mycroft, eyes closed tightly.

“He’s safe, Sherlock. We’re looking into her and he’s safe. Let it be enough.”

The door opens and drifts slowly shut, the safety mechanism preventing it from slamming but squealing awfully as it goes.

Sherlock decides _enough_ will rest next to _both_ on his gravestone as causes of death.

\--

Dead leaves flit about his pointed shoes and Sherlock meanders through the park.

It’s three months gone without a word and every breath feels like it’s own eternity, like an exercise in futility, what is breathing, what is living, why bother with the triviality of it all. But he has to keep him safe, with or without keeping him near. He will not let John Watson down again.

His own heart feels brittle like the dead things that crunch under his steps, beating on it’s own again thanks to all the expensive doctors Mycroft could buy, bribe or extort, but it’s weaker. Sherlock knows it is. It beats like an after thought, as an echo, an inevitability of biology with no purpose other than pushing lethargic blood through static veins. There is nothing dynamic, nothing surprising, nothing dangerous in it.

After once around the park, shivering in the chilly air, Sherlock folds himself into the wheelchair and asks the nurse to head back to the hospital. He dozes on the way back, dreaming of cigarettes, of cocaine and needles, of ways to dull the pain, dreaming of John. Always, always dreaming of John.

\--

As the snow falls, Sherlock watches from the window in the silent flat. Silence is the default of his life, now, quiet and calm and hateful as ever. But there’s a certain serenity to it — that he despises.

He’s only just arrived home from the hospital, supposedly healed, although everything feels stiff and unwieldy, despite or thanks to the laughable physical therapy he’s endured. Christmas is a week away and the thought of day itself feels like a physical weight in Sherlock’s stomach. _Home for the holidays. Should be awful_.

The doctor insisted on a private nurse but after she settles Sherlock in his chair at the sitting room table and fixed him a cuppa, he can no longer take her fussing over him, rearranging things, trying to move the Union Jack pillow from John’s chair to wedge between him and the chair and he bellows at her to get out before she can touch it. She tsks, gathering her things, leaves with the threat that she’ll return tomorrow.

Sherlock watches the sky and the snow and the tea goes cold and so does Sherlock but it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter.

A key in the front door of the flat, lock turning and steps on the staircase. Sherlock keeps still and vows silently to rid Mycroft of his set. He speaks with his eyes fixed on the sky.

“I’m fine.”

“Well. Good.”

His still uncoordinated limbs fumble in shock and knock the freezing tea in its saucer, splashing creamy liquid onto useless papers because it’s not Mycroft.

“ _John_ ,” like a talisman, like a prayer. Sherlock turns in his seat and John is in the doorway, those extra seven pounds melted away and more — 20 at least. John is positively skeletal, Sherlock thinks and immediately berates himself for exaggerating. He’s too thin to be sure, but there is a vitality to him, as always.

With careful steps he crosses the distance and Sherlock struggles to stand.

“No, please. You should rest.” John looks blank, but also so sad. He reaches out to Sherlock’s cold fingers resting on the table and curls his left hand around them. Sherlock stares down at their hands, together, and marvels.

“You were … you are … you’re always so warm.”

John smiles, eyes sad, bereft.

“So ... is there a plan then?”

Sherlock is flooded with emotion so quickly his vision swims. Gently he bobs his head side to side, to clear it, to deduce John and yes, he’s sad, unsure and uncertain of the future, but he’s here and — Sherlock looks at their hands — no ring. John is at 221B, holding Sherlock’s hand, no wedding ring in sight. Sherlock focuses on the hallway behind John and sees bags. Sherlock thought he would be happy if this ever happened, imagined it many times with dramatic embraces and deep kisses and rejoicing, but it’s not like that. Sherlock is glad that John is here, but this is not happy. There’s still much to do before they reach anything resembling the realm of happy.

“Yes. There’s a plan.”

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand, nods once.

“I have no idea how this will work but … I’m here to give it a go.”

Tears are pooling in Sherlock’s eyes and he wills them to keep their place. He nods.

“John I’m … I’m sor—”

“No. Don’t do that. We’ve done it already. Let’s finally get to the next bit.”

John’s left hand uncurls from Sherlock’s and brushes against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Do you need anything?”

“Uh, no, I’m fine.” John says fine at the same time and they both laugh, very small, very quiet. But they both laugh.

“Okay. I’ll be here if you need me.”

John takes one of the papers that the nurse left from the desk and shakes the remaining drops of tea from it, walking over to his chair. He absently plumps the Union Jack pillow and drops down to sit.

Sherlock leans back, putting his hands together beneath his chin, hears John open the paper. When the the pages rustle against themselves as they’re unfurled, he closes his eyes and it could be five years ago, it could be the first day John moved in, it could be simple, it could be easy, it could be happy — it almost feels like nothing’s changed at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> onthelosingside.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks to everyone for following along with my first wip. It's been a roller coaster of emotion - and I love roller coasters.
> 
> EDIT: I am currently working on a WIP sequel to this: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2350427


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